


Second Wind

by Spectersticks



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Battle, Bespin, Cody is so done, Gen, Intense amounts of military strategy, Military, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Strategy & Tactics, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-07-06 07:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 57,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15881676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectersticks/pseuds/Spectersticks
Summary: Transmissions from all over the Mid and Outer Rims disappear when Separatist forces claim a vital signal relay station on Bespin. Naval engagement from the 104th and 501st ensues above planet to make way for the deposition of 212th ground troops intending to take back the floating platform and reestablish communications across the galaxy. But the station is drowning in droids, leaving Obi-Wan with little choice but to accept the stakes and infiltrate by less savory means. Deception and stealth are key while the enemy takes the advantage in numbers, but one wrong move results in more than just mission failure unless assistance from the two naval units can intervene - provided Plo Koon and Anakin Skywalker can defeat the Separatist fleet before time runs out.





	1. Chapter 1

The afternoon sun cast a layer of gold over Bespin’s western hemisphere. At this time of day, iconic Cloud City was already in shadow. Only the less frequented Sector 6 –known locally as Corona Station– was still basking in the brilliant hues of sunset. Sector 6 was, simply put, a glamorous façade for a government sweatshop. This tiny, floating island was home to the great communications hub responsible for relaying all interplanetary signals from over a hundred sectors between the Mid and Outer Rims. It was both a product and a source of the planet’s immense wealth. Outwardly, Sector 6 mirrored Cloud City in many ways; the elegantly tapered saucer shape drifted just as serenely as its larger sibling, though Sector 6 was compacted to only one hundred twenty-two levels instead of Cloud City’s nearly four hundred. Moreover, most of these levels were dedicated solely to machinery, all for the purpose of maintaining the galactic comm station and its supporting buildings. Due to the requirements of signal transmission, these buildings resided together on the structure’s open-air surface. Passersby overhead would scarcely be able to differentiate the station’s layout from Cloud City’s luxurious tourist district, which was just as well, because hovering above the gaseous wasteland of Bespin, camouflage was the only way to conceal something so valuable.

Then again, such a ruse was largely unnecessary: few organizations would find profit in disrupting such a communally beneficial service. For this reason the administration at Cloud City grew lax in the station’s supervision. None were prepared when the Separatist fleet exited hyperspace one evening and took Sector 6 within a few scant hours. An overwhelming swarm of fighters, dropships and gunships descended en masse, securing the entire platform at once and forcing the workers there into emergency confines. And when Cloud City went to beg for aid from Coruscant, the Temple received no transmission. Fortunately, the vast and sudden gap in reception from over eighty different planets surrounding Bespin was more than conspicuous enough for even the average mind to suspect there was trouble. Less fortunately, the lack of communication available to that region forced Cloud City representatives to travel in person to deliver their request for Republic intervention – a task made considerably more difficult by the Separatist fleet haunting the planet’s outermost atmosphere. In the end it took four Standard days after the invasion on Bespin for the Republic to issue a response. Plenty of time for the droid army to get cozy on Corona Station and set out on whatever project they felt such a widescale communications blackout was needed for.

Three monstrous Republic star destroyers were thus staged above Bespin. Eight frigates and seventeen starfighters wove around their flanks, streaking like sentient meteors where they dipped and dodged and laid waste to the droid opposition. But ever more targets appeared; line after line of tri-fighters and Vultures spewed forth from the five Separatist cruisers arranged strategically to coax Republic warships into their vacant middle ground. At first glance, this area appeared ideal to stage an attack on the frontmost heavy cruiser because it was disconnected from the protective network of its fellows further back. The bait was taken once, and the trap was sprung, leaving nothing but Republic debris when several streams of long range laser fire shot through the squad in an instant from those cruisers stationed further back. “Stay _away_ from that opening!” ordered Plo Koon from within the cockpit of his own Y-wing, having just witnessed one more of his own clones suffer the deadly consequences of being lured into the pocket with false advantage.

The naval battle ongoing was intended as a cover. Successfully occupying the Separatist fleet was to provide the opportunity for Republic LAATs and dropships to safely descend into Bespin’s atmosphere and deposit upon Sector 6 the means to establish a formidable ground assault. Liberation of the station was first priority this mission, as reinforcements for the larger battle above (should they prove necessary) would be unreachable so long as communications back to Coruscant remained blocked. But just ten minutes earlier, four of the six LAATS launched during a window in the enemy’s formation reported failure to land and requested immediate return to the fleet. The droid occupation was more lavish than anticipated. J-1 proton cannons decorated the Sector’s extravagant walkways, gardens and rooftops, effectively creating a concerted network of defense that precluded any hope of landing with the slow-moving descent required for proper installation of troops. Were the mission on any other planet, the ground assault would simply begin further away. Being Bespin, however, direct infiltration was really the only way to go. Furthermore, sending starfighters to eliminate the cannons would endanger the city. Each building held relevance of one level or another to the comm relay’s function, so preservation of infrastructure had importance beyond the financial.

The returning LAATs and dropships filed into the centermost star destroyer from the top. Upon entry past the destroyer’s airlock shield, the ships began to depressurize and adjust to the carefully maintained environment of the hangar. No clone aboard the carriers was terribly thrilled with the prospect of retreat, but each of them knew with the utmost confidence that their General would soon have them grounded in action as planned. Their brothers’ sacrifice –the two LAATs missing– would not go to waste. It was this faith that drove away the troops’ desire for words when the wide doors of their crafts swept aside. The mission was still on. It was only a matter of time before redeployment. No need to get casual. The look of displeasure on Obi-Wan’s face as he exited the LAAT told everyone in the hangar to steer clear and allow him to think. His strides came in fast, irritated steps. If his men were upset with the mission so far, then Obi-Wan was furious. What could he have done differently? He expected hostility. The formation he’d organized in response was executed without flaw, right down to the feint maneuver he’d instructed half the ships to make in order to open up a small part of the station for landing. If only just _one_ carrier had successfully made ground, that would have spelled the end for the opposition. Those troops would have distracted or destroyed proton cannons nearby, propagating a domino effect and thereby exponentially raising the chances of the other crafts’ landing. _Fighters,_ Obi-Wan thought. _I should have brought fighters._ The enemy didn’t know – could predict, but wouldn’t know – how expendable the Republic viewed Sector 6. A slew of fighters might’ve swooped a few rounds, gotten in close, “missed” a few shots and pretended to be scared off, all while taking the heat off the prospective ground assault. Would the droids fall for it?

Obi-Wan was surprised to find himself standing in the star destroyer’s bridge. His body must have assumed auto-pilot as his mind scoured strategy for flaws. The bridge was familiar, replete with all the usual thrumming of mid-battle assessment that signaled the battle’s tide was well-matched. Admiral Wullf Yularen could be seen among two clone lieutenants ahead, the three of them crowded purposefully around the holotable and the grand battle it projected. Luminescent green shapes danced staccato across the projection. Larger pyramids took the place of heavy cruisers, and smaller ones for bombers and such. Useful tools, as ever they were, but they never really captured the sort of chaos and uncertainty brought about with actual combat. The last half hour’s mayhem over Sector 6 contrasted acutely with the cool greens of holographic analysis. Obi-Wan stepped up to the group.

“General Kenobi,” greeted Yularen, turning his unblinking attention from the grid out in front. “I can report that the Separatists are keeping their battle cruisers stationary. It is likely the case that they mean to stall us to the depletion of our forces. Without that comm station up and running, we will be unable to request reinforcements, and the enemy will advance at his time of choosing.”

Surely the Admiral intended no disrespect, absorbed in the larger scheme as was his duty and strength, but Obi-Wan really didn’t need to be reminded of the assault he forfeited not an hour ago at everyone’s expense. “The station is overrun with droids using long range cannons to prevent us from landing,” he explained level-headedly as he keyed in a series of digits to the table’s control panel. The image of the two fleets turned blue then, was minimized and gave way to an expanded view of Sector 6. “We divided their fire as planned,” he continued, “but we lost the carriers that were sent to capture the first point.” A sweeping of coordinates over the panel highlighted the pertinent section in red. “I fear the platform is too densely occupied for diversionary tactics.”

At the helm of the bridge, Anakin stirred from his observation of the campaign’s progress. He and Admiral Yularen were assigned to share fleet command while Plo and the 104th were to carry out naval operations in real time. Fluid cooperation of all three officers was imperative to culminate in the 212th’s implantation onto Sector 6. As such, everyone felt at least a touch bitter when Obi-Wan reported retreat. Spotting his Master across the way, Anakin left the stagnating scene out in space and walked back to listen in on the firsthand explanation for what he was merely informed of as “failure to land.”

“What do you suggest?” he heard Yularen ask Obi-Wan upon his approach. Obi-Wan fell quiet, propping his elbow up in his hand in favor of scratching thoughtfully through his short beard. Frustration illuminated the Force in his place, flowing along dozens of separate strings of possible strategies and their associated pitfalls. The silence prompted Anakin to offer up his perspective.

“They’re wearing us down out here. Master Plo and his guys can hang on for a while, but the longer we wait, the less ships we’ll have to carve out another opening down to Bespin. Better make this one count, Obi-Wan.” _And you’d better make it quick._ He folded his arms.

The droid army’s defenses on Bespin were impenetrable. It was an amateur method, to crudely swamp the area with guns, but Obi-Wan had to admit that it worked with the terrain. Only fast, small ships such as interceptors and bombers could hope to counter that blinding mess of cannons. Of course, neither of those classes were suited in the slightest for the deposition of troops. And Sector 6 absolutely needed to be retaken gently from the ground, lest the whole mission lose its point by accidental destruction of the facilities. What Obi-Wan needed was a fast way to get troops from air to ground. Cannons could be out-maneuvered by speed. But it wasn’t as if his troops could simply _drop_ from high altitude at terminal velocity…

The concentration in Obi-Wan’s gaze lifted into stark realization. The Force crackled with inspiration. The hand left his beard and his eyes locked onto Anakin where he stood behind the Admiral.

“... _Oh_ boy,” Anakin dismayed, suddenly uneasy about the plot burning inside his Master’s head.

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan struck out a hand in proposition, leaving Yularen feeling as though there had been some important wave in the Force that no one had bothered to notify him about. “I’ll need to borrow your skills as a pilot. Round up the men you have here on standby and assemble an escort. Instruct them to direct fire away from you as we descend but _do not_ allow them to damage the platform. You will be piloting a small cruiser, if we have one. Anything fast, with as many escape pods as the ship will hold.”

Anakin hoped desperately that just this once, he and Obi-Wan were not imagining the same plan. “… _Escape pods,”_ he repeated slowly, knowing exactly how his Master would interpret his incredulity.

Obi-Wan clasped Anakin’s slumping shoulders with a nod and a not-so-reassuring smile. “I have nothing but faith in you, Anakin.”


	2. Chapter 2

The two Jedi paced hurriedly down the hall to the lift, uninterrupted by the passing clones in grey-blue naval uniform.

“I don’t usually say this–” Anakin premised as he matched Obi-Wan’s pace from behind, “–but this is the _stupidest_ idea you’ve ever had.” He leaned forward with arms out in emphasis as they walked, though Obi-Wan didn’t seem to take note. “Do you even know how small a target that little flying hunk of metal _is?_ Escape pods aren’t precision aircraft!” he argued more specifically, “I can’t target your landing zone!” The lift doors shut on their own, enclosing the pair in relative silence.

“I never thought I’d see the day when _legendary pilot Anakin Skywalker_ refused to take up a challenge,” taunted Obi-Wan in return. The lift began to move.

Anakin soured visibly. “This isn’t _funny!_ Do you know what will happen if I _miss?!”_

“Well, presumably the concentration of tibanna gas will increase the further we descend into the strata, and our pods will combust once that concentration reaches a level sufficient to react with the heat surrounding the outer casings,” Obi-Wan explained without adornment, as though he was discussing nothing more dangerous than the afternoon’s weather.  

“ _THAT’S KIND OF A PROBLEM,”_ Anakin implored upon him. His advantage in height didn’t seem to be doing much in the way of coercion where he stood, practically hovering over his Master’s personal space. Obi-Wan stepped out of the lift when it arrived to their floor. Anakin scurried to keep pace closely attached at his side.

“Then it’s a good thing we’ve the galaxy’s most talented pilot to guide us to safety.”

_“Obi-Wan!”_

The long hangar was teeming with noise. Strewn across the open passage laid a graveyard of damaged fighters lucky enough to have made it back to the fleet in (mostly) one piece. A squad of clones to the left were busy spraying away at a cluster of flames spouting from a newly-admitted ship’s fuselage. The pilot was undergoing a routine medical exam a short distance off, undoubtedly berating the medical droid for what he viewed as a humiliating waste of time. Other pilots were not nearly so fortunate. Amidst the relative bedlam, the clones of the 212th were standing in loose association further ahead. It was perplexing, in a way, to comprehend that all of this rush and turmoil was for their sake alone. Ultimately every clone’s duty –indeed every clone’s _existence_ – was for the sake of the Republic, but in the here and now everyone’s foremost objective was to put the 212th on that tiny disc over Bespin. Taking pause from the surveillance of his troops, Cody met with the Jedi on their path to locate the _Consular_ -class cruiser notated in the star destroyer’s inventory.

“Generals,” he acknowledged as he fell into step, “We’re ready to move on your mark.”

“Excellent,” responded Obi-Wan, “I’ll explain the new plan once we’ve inspected the ship we’ll be taking to land on the surface of Sector Six.”

Beneath his helmet Cody’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Sir, we’re not taking the LAATs?”

“No. We’ll never be able to out-maneuver those cannons in anything less than a cruiser.” He then turned his attention to Anakin, exuding anger and apprehension like sweltering wildfire in the Force. “Now tell me, what is the maximum recommended occupancy for the escape pods on our vessel?”

Anakin huffed indignantly. “The standard C-seventy retrofit replaced the original Consular droid hold to fit four five-person pods, but most Consulars have another pod at the front. That one’s occupancy depends on the original model. Civilian models and Republic commissions got the standard sixteen-seater but if the GAR bought it from a private party it’s gonna be tailored to the customer’s specifications.” The words rolled off his tongue like they were common knowledge. “…Not that it _matters,_ because this is a bad idea in the _first place!_ Seriously, what do I have to do to get you to give up on this?!”

But having been supplied with the information requested, Obi-Wan was content to ignore his Padawan’s complaints. The sleek, impressive shape of the single _Consular-_ class cruiser came into view where it knelt, unattended and sheltered inside the righthand archway off the hangar’s ample runway space. He said nothing more and began to appraise the exterior hull with such a degree of scrutiny that made it all the more apparent how disinterested he was in debate. Fists balled at his sides, Anakin boiled in silence. The cruiser was yet well-maintained. It bore no superficial signs of use, which was at the same time pleasing and disconcerting: an untested ship was an untrustworthy one. Still, by his own experience with suboptimal transportation, Obi-Wan judged that the expanse of metal before him would be more than sufficient to survive a couple dips in and out of the thermosphere. The _real_ question concerned the craft’s ability to withstand its pilot’s demands. Said pilot was standing unhelpful nearby, closed-postured and glaring his old Master’s way. Seeing this, Cody soon detected that he’d mistakenly interjected upon the two Generals’ spat. The air was growing denser by the second. He briefly considered taking his leave while his part in this awkward scene was still unimportant, but predictably, his loyalty won out in the end. Sensing Obi-Wan’s unspoken request as though it were written in the recycled air before him, Cody found himself in the regrettable position to mediate.

He flicked his head toward the craft. “Could use your expertise with the engines, General Skywalker,” he gently supplied.

A guttural noise of contempt breached Anakin’s lips at that, but the desired effect was obtained. He stalked forward and disappeared inside the cruiser via the open ramp at the back. Once he was gone, Obi-Wan made a point to regard his Commander with a mischievous grin over his shoulder from his position facing the turbines. It occurred to Cody then that he’d just been manipulated into manipulating another on Obi-Wan’s petty behalf: was it really so obvious he’d make the choice to intervene? A moment was spent in reflection, and Cody decided his presence was better spent elsewhere, after all. _The things I have to deal with in this job._ He left without wasting a word.

“Shadow Squadron, reporting for duty as ordered,” called the voice of a happier clone as he drew near the cruiser. His helmet was adorned with Shadow Squadron-grey markings reminiscent of a Kaminoan aiwha. Ten other pilots were assembled behind him. As Obi-Wan turned in observation of his newly recruited escort, the clone gave his firmest salute. “We’re ready to go when you are, sir.”

Obi-Wan sent his approval through the change in his posture, hands folded neatly at the base of his back. “Good timing,” he said, “It appears that the preparations to your ships are nearly complete, and General Skywalker will be with us shortly.”

“Very good, sir – we won’t let you down.”

From the rear of the group, a pair of budding Togruta montrals made their way to the front. “You’ll be safe with us, Master Obi-Wan,” remarked Ahsoka with a smile warm enough to chase away the battle’s foreboding gloom.

“Ahsoka,” he recognized genially. Her signature was perceptible in the Force from kilometers away, but still the familiar tone of welcoming was appreciated. “I’d hoped you might be joining us. You’ll be leading the escort, I presume?”

“That’s right. With Master Skywalker handling the dropoff, I’ll be in charge of Shadow Squadron this time around. You’ll both be in good hands – I promise.”

“I have no doubts about that, but do be cautious not to return fire onto the Sector.” He turned his head up to address the flight squad in full. “That goes for all of you. Any damage to the infrastructure could compromise the mission. You must stay focused on evasion and distraction _only_. Have I made myself clear?”

Anakin was making his way back down the ramp and out of the ship when Shadow Squadron’s crisp, perfectly synchronized “Sir, yes sir!” rang out to meet him. The picture was somehow discouraging. Seeing the full entourage suited up and issuing salute seemed to solidify the idea that this operation was genuinely going to happen. Coupled with that was the image of his Master and Padawan at the forefront, smiling to one another like the unorthodox family they’d come to be – the unorthodox family they would certainly _lose_ if Anakin made one little mistake. Ahsoka didn’t know the plan yet. At least, not in full. She’d be making quite a different face if she did. Anakin took his place in the group. He tried his best then _not_ to savor the feeling of being flanked by the two Force signatures he cherished the most, because this wouldn’t be their last time. It _wouldn’t._

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan chimed, “I trust the engines were suitable for your tastes?”

“They’ll do,” reported Anakin in much the opposite tone.

Ahsoka peered between them curiously. Given that Obi-Wan had returned from retreat not an hour ago, she expected it would be Anakin trying to cheer _him_ up. She was about to break the tiptoeing disquiet she sensed creeping into the Force, when Obi-Wan sent her suddenly on her way.

“Right then,” he concluded, “Shadow Squadron, take position to depart. Admiral Yularen will give the signal when he’s established our route into Bespin. Anakin and I shall follow from behind so that the Separatists are allowed to react to your fighters first. And Ahsoka, remember to be mindful of the droids’ general interest in your ruse. When the time is right, coordinate with the men to give us an opening.”

Ahsoka nodded attentively. “Got it, Master.” In her mind, she imagined that the decision to deliver the ground troops by cruiser had something to do with the chosen ship’s landing speed. LAATs were probably too slow, she interpreted correctly, and she trusted Anakin to have the strengths and weaknesses of every ship memorized. At any rate, the actual landing logistics were none of her concern. It was her duty to keep the air as vacant as possible for both of her Masters to do as they pleased. “Let’s go, guys,” she directed her men, and the neat pack of clones trailed behind her as she left.

Anakin paused. “…You’re not gonna tell her,” he stated, rather than asked, as soon as Ahsoka was well out of earshot.

Obi-Wan shrugged. “She reminds me of you. Best not to hamper the confidence of _another_ exemplary pilot, don’t you agree?”

There came no answer to that. While Anakin did believe in their Padawan’s ability to perform under pressure, something in him was also hoping to spare her from the crushing anxiety this mission was flooding him with. Selfish or not, he found he felt relieved. Like any Jedi, Ahsoka ought to be afforded clarity in every relevant facet of the tasks laid before her. But it wasn’t _really relevant_ for her to know that one of her Masters was about to be jettisoned from high altitude toward a target surrounded by unsurvivable gas. Anakin suspected that was the exact loophole Obi-Wan was using to preserve his pristine reputation. The notion probably should have upset him. And yet, the two stood in tacit agreement.

Then Obi-Wan went to fetch the 212th.


	3. Chapter 3

Turbulent winds lashed against the cruiser’s hull as it dove deep into the frigid mesosphere. Thirty-five clones were distributed among the craft’s five escape pods, save for one of the smaller set, which reserved an empty seat for the General who was co-piloting up front. The squadron of fighters was far out of sight. Radar indicated their formation was clean further down, meaning engagement with the enemy was still yet to come. No word from Ahsoka. The calm before the storm. Outside the cockpit, the inky depths of space were giving way to the oceanic turquoise of dawn. Stars above were dwindling in their intensity. Local time showed that the company’s target was closer to nightfall, however, so this brief pass through the thinner layers of atmosphere would soon be overtaken by dusk when the troposphere was breached. Anakin manually adjusted the pitch to compensate for the increasing gravity.

“I’m picking up a strong magnetic signal near our target zone,” the cockpit speakers announced in Ahsoka’s serious voice, “That’s gotta be Sector Six. We’ll forward the scan as soon as we’re in range.”

“Copy that, Ahsoka. We’re right behind you.” Anakin cleared the outdated scan log in preparation for the new influx of data. He then contorted back in his seat to face R2-D2 plugging away at the droid interface panel. “Y’hear that Artoo? Give me the short version when the next scan comes in.”

R2 whistled twice to confirm.

Obi-Wan shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve programmed that thing to _summarize_ for you,” he complained, “Don’t you think you should decide for yourself the most salient points of a scan?”

But nothing inflated Anakin’s pride in the droid quite like Obi-Wan’s continued disappointment. “He knows what’s important,” Anakin said with a smile.

The next voice to penetrate the _Consular_ ’s hold was that of an adamant Plo Koon. “General Skywalker,” he began, already imparting his haste and high tension, “We need you and your squadron back here _immediately._ The Separatist warships have begun to advance.”

Anakin and Obi-Wan dropped the subject of R2 with an abrupt glance in each other’s direction.

“General Koon,” Anakin responded at once, “We’re almost into the stratosphere. Just hang on until we’ve finished the mission, and we’ll rejoin the fight as soon as we can.”

“I’m afraid there may not be a fight to return to if you hesitate much longer. The way things are going, my men will be unable drive the enemy back.” A calculated silence in the active transmission told the two Jedi below that Plo was involved in a dogfight. The alleviated tone that followed told them he’d won. “…We still have the strength to force them into a standstill, for now.”

“Okay.” Anakin eased off the ventral repulsion to accelerate their descent. Obi-Wan increased the coolant flow to the hull in compensation. “Just keep them occupied for as long as you can. We’ll be there before you know it.”

A simplified circular map of Sector 6 blinked onto the monitor between the two pilot switchboards. It had been expertly pared down to a topographical landscape with expandable hot zones pointed out in red. Despite his hard work, there was no time to congratulate R2 before Ahsoka’s comm blared to life in place of Plo. “I just sent over the scan,” she reported, “We’re closing in on Sector Six. Shadow Squadron is ready to engage on your signal.”

Closing out the new map, Anakin accessed the most recent transcript from the automated log back in his star destroyer. The log updated continuously and catalogued every ship’s status on both sides of the battle. R2 warbled his irritation. “Permission to engage, Snips. Don’t hold back. Master Plo needs us back in orbit _asap_.” He scrolled through the log with diligence etched into his face.

Obi-Wan grinned. Even if he never saw that face again, he was in this moment completely assured that his student would surpass him in every way. His part was unneeded. He flicked off his station to auto, and rose from his chair. Anakin was drawn from the screen. _Where are you going?_ he narrowly prevented himself from asking. But Obi-Wan answered him anyway.

“You seem to have things under control here; I suppose I’d better do my part as well and strap in for the drop.”

“Uh-” came Anakin’s dignified response. Between the rapidfire burst of responsibility that comprised the Navy in peril and the beginning of their own skirmish in the troposphere, he hadn’t much time to come up with a suitable farewell. “-Right. I’ll comm the pods when we’re in position.” And then Obi-Wan was gone. He might have held something important in his eyes, if Anakin had the mind to notice, but it was all too soon when Obi-Wan turned around and patted R2 once on his dome before exiting the cockpit through the quick, metal doors. The whole ship felt colder. _Kriff. I messed up._

The troposphere bled with vivid shades of red and dark orange. Off in the distance a flock of predators swooped ferociously over the floating platform, swirling within a barrage of red beams that seemed to rain on indefinitely. The attack looked disorganized, but that too was part of the charade. Chaos was distracting. The less systematic the squadron appeared, the greater confidence the enemy would have in shooting them down. The more confidence they had, the more focused they would be. The more focused they were, the easier they’d be to mislead. Anakin’s own schemes were rarely so complex. Earlier in the war he might have interpreted the growing scene as his Padawan’s inability to command, and back then, it might have been true. But Ahsoka learned like a sponge, Anakin found, and the only possible explanation now was that she’d gleaned a thing or two from Obi-Wan’s infamous knack for deception. The cruiser was closing in fast. Too close, and Shadow Squadron might not have the space they needed to operate as planned. Too far, and any window they’d make would shrink before Anakin had the chance to take it. This whole mission was _swimming_ in half-sculpted details _._ How many milliseconds would Anakin have to line up the shot? Would he have to circle around to aim each pod individually? How would the winds outside affect their flight pattern? He couldn’t even predict. There just wasn’t time.

The cruiser veered up maybe half a klick outside the perimeter Shadow Squadron seemed to be keeping relative to Sector 6. The sound of cannon fire was amplified now, coming loud from outside as it whizzed between ships in a pelting stream of deadly muffled song. From here, all occupants aboard the _Consular_ had a good look at the small city below. Tall buildings were artfully huddled together around the snakelike main walkway that permeated most of the area, and scattered patches of green could be found in an obvious attempt to make the whole space seem a little less industrial. Of course, the main attraction had to be the coating of battle droids upon every tractable surface.

“There’s no way General Skywalker can land us without hitting those buildings,” wagered Longshot from inside his pod.

“Assuming he can land us at all,” countered the clone to his right.

In the back of the group, Switch occupied himself with his weapon, rather than paying attention outside. “Well I’m not so worried about that,” he offered in Longshot’s support, “seeing’s there’s not a frag we can throw at it from up here. The Jedi will do their job and we’ll just do ours. We’ll get on that rock in one shape or another. And if we don’t, well,” he shrugged, “we’re not gonna be around to fuss about it.”

Not one of the other four had an argument against him, so their helmets turned back to the lightshow below.

Cody was packed into the largest pod, the standard 16’er converted from a salon pod up front. It was unlikely that each pod would land in convenient proximity, so Cody judged it best to send himself with the largest group of the bunch. At least one officer would thus be around to coordinate the men in the time it took them all to regroup. Thinking similarly, Obi-Wan had offered to accept that position, but was painstakingly argued down using all the crafty rhetoric that Cody could muster. Both of them knew in advance that the largest pod would be the droids’ favorite target. But only Cody valued the General’s life above his own. In spite of – or maybe because of – the pod’s greater capacity, its occupants were more resigned than the rest. The tumultuous battle outside was like some morbid stage play unfolding before them. The brothers in the 501st were its players, acrobatic and brave, demonstrating clearly the risk they were willing to take in order to make way for the next act. It was all the 212th could do to vow amongst themselves that they’d put on a good show.

“Ready when you are,” announced Obi-Wan through the comm unit on Anakin’s wrist.

Anakin never really appreciated how much he enjoyed hearing that voice. He was busy maneuvering the cruiser around the invisible borders of Shadow Squadron, predicting their movements with startling accuracy to keep himself in decent position to dive in at a moment’s notice. A few heavy bolts were sent over his way every now and again, but they were simple enough to dodge and the majority of the fire was being swept in the fighters’ direction as planned. He almost might have wished things were going a little _less_ well; that way, he might have been able to direct his full focus to the mission, and thereby ignore the tingling sensation of nervousness that kept reminding him of the lives in his hands.

Meanwhile, the absent response was causing Obi-Wan to worry. It was unlike Anakin to fret so much, even in the worst of circumstances. “It appears these pods are equipped with a rudimentary navigation system,” he comforted marginally, regarding the thrusters in back. “We should be able to use these to avoid any buildings on our way down to the station.”

“Trying to _concentrate,_ Master,” Anakin reproached. The more Obi-Wan talked, the louder Anakin’s doubts shouted over him. Taking the hint, Obi-Wan settled and opted to go about soothing him less ambiguously, by grappling hold of those jittering waves in the Force. He let his eyes close. To every other Jedi, Anakin felt like a raging whirlwind thrashing rampantly over a violent sea. It was probably half of the reason why Yoda never seemed to care much for the boy. But Obi-Wan had patience beyond, and with enough time spent combing through those untamed wilds in the Force, it had become trivial for him to step into Anakin’s mind and spread his serene tides of calm. The volatile buzzing petered out to a stop. For a second or so, Anakin felt himself become wrapped up in that familiar warmth. For a second more, it rolled the tension away from his frame, as it had hundreds of times in the past. And then the idea returned, that _this_ is what he would lose if at all he screwed up. Obi-Wan flinched as their bond was slammed shut. Nerves spiked tenfold, Anakin gripped the ship’s flight controls hard enough to test durability of the circuits composing his right arm.

Ahsoka yelled over the intercom. “Get ready! We’re giving this a shot!”

Reams of Huttese curses spilled out of Anakin’s mind. “ _Perfect._ This is just _PERFECT,”_ he scolded at no one in particular.

“I-is there something wrong?!” Ahsoka’s voice came back in alarm. Anakin forgot she was listening.

“No!” he lied angrily, “No, just- Get it over with!”

“Okay!” Her panic was cut, and Anakin watched from the cockpit as Shadow Squadron flew into three separate teams. The first team swooped in a V, tempting the bulk of the fire to follow them off. Simultaneously the next team came in from underneath – a ruse within a ruse designed to trick the enemy into believing the real attack would come from down there. The remaining ships traveled over the top of the station, gathering up any more cannon fire unoccupied by the two formations preceding. Ahsoka was opening up an entrance from the _side._ She must have expected their cruiser would dock normally, and were Anakin not so provoked, he would have applauded her for her foresight. Instead he was _furious_. Ramping the air pressure behind the pods to full power, he vaulted the cruiser ahead.

“Well this is _GREAT,_ you see what happens when you don’t explain the plan?!” he argued alone as the ship boosted forward, “A side entrance! How the hell do you want me to shoot an escape pod into a side entrance?!” He powered the repulsor shields down for better control, and R2 tweeted quietly. “ _I KNOW HE CAN’T HEAR ME RIGHT NOW!”_ The Sector was on rapid approach. “It’ll be _YOUR FAULT_ if this doesn’t work out, Obi-Wan, and you’re gonna _go down in history_ as the _stupidest Jedi_ who thought it was a good idea to let his Padawan throw you into a gas giant.” With trembling hands Anakin seized back the controls and smashed his metal fist into the launch button for the salon pod in front. The entire ship recoiled at the high propulsion shot. The oversized pod rocketed out, leaving hardly a trail with the incredible speed it took before disappearing completely. Anakin swerved the ship up at around ninety degrees. “ _BYE CODY,”_ he yelled bitterly, trying his damnedest to smother his fear in his rage. Sixteen fiery dots in the Force flew away like a comet of irreplaceable lives. Yanking a lever above the viewport, the rear stabilizers screamed into action and flipped the whole cruiser on its side when Anakin jerked the controls to the left. He was already heading back into cannon fire. That window was too small.

 _“Anakin!”_ blared Obi-Wan’s voice on the comm. “ _Fire us now!_ We must make ground with the rest of the troops!”

The ship was in fairly good position. Even as bolts were coming their way, the _Consular_ was flying approximately overhead of the station with its pod side facing in. The shot wouldn’t have the luxury of aiming in the same direction as gravity, but given the situation, it was probably the best they could do.

 _“Master!”_ joined Ahsoka in a rush. “What in the universe did you just _DO?!”_

Anakin shut off her channel entirely. The next shot would be the last one: four pods’ worth of insurmountable guilt. It had to be impeccable.

_“ANAKIN-”_

Blazing red plasma exploded into the ship’s ventral hull. Everyone aboard the _Consular_ was tossed in their seats, clambering gracelessly for something to hold while the shock tapered out. R2 screeched in dismay as he was forcibly detached from the droid panel and sent wheeling into the wall. Digging his palm into the fabric of the pilot chair headrest, Anakin wrenched himself upright and proceeded to wrench the ship along with him. He swiftly keyed over a series of buttons to restore the shields and reactivate the auto-calibrator for balance. Diagnostics would have to come later.

_“SHOOT THE PODS!”_

“We’re _hit!_ I can’t stabilize the launch!”

“ _SHOOT_ the blasted pods and _get out of here!”_

“Just give me a _SECOND!”_

The channel was dropped. Luminous red was engulfing the sky, be it from laser fire or sinister dusk, and while Anakin divided his time between compensatory adjustments and close-range evasion, the four pods ejected of their own accord. His whole body stilled. The recoil went unregistered as his Master’s place in the Force shrunk further and further away, but he was not afforded a moment to process. A second beam detonated on the first of three turbines and hurled him onto the deck. Deep-toned alarms poured into the cockpit, and together with the concussive force of the impact, Anakin was dragged back to his instincts. He scrambled to get hold of the controls.


	4. Chapter 4

Zero hour. If ever there was a time to describe the feeling of mission commencement, this would be it. Barreling through the sky approaching terminal velocity, the salon pod’s cabin bellowed in three separate alarms at once. Initial drop speed was too fast. Predicted landing angle was far from correct. Systems couldn’t keep up. The onboard computers were expecting the logarithmic downward acceleration typical of most pod ejections, but then again, this wasn’t a drop. This was _projectile firing._ And outside the wide, panoramic viewport, there were more than a hundred semi-autonomous cannons turning to fire back. Even so, the clones inside had more important things to consider for the task yet to come. Equipment was checked and re-checked, seating constraints fastened tighter, silent meditation completed. This was the plan. Though the immediate dangers were perilous both inside the small craft and out, everything was going according to plan. For a clone, that meant there was no reason to overreact to the low probability for survival they were all facing. Either they’d make it to phase two, or they’d leave the rest up to their brothers.

A nominally decorated clone named Twist played the part of navigator at the helm. The steering system was nowhere near robust enough to dodge bolts, but by keeping the controls locked back toward himself, he maximized the lateral distance at which the pod would fly. Being situated closest to the viewport, Twist was also in the best position to witness the blustering storm of lasers enveloping their growing target. He wondered if he ought to say something if it turned out they weren’t going to land. Spotting the cruiser they’d all but erupted from less than a minute prior, he was broken sharply from his musings: Skywalker was hit. Fresh flames combusted out of the ship’s underbelly, fueled greedily by the troposphere’s oxygen. When Twist swung around to report, the other fifteen were already straining to get a better look.

“The pods!” cried the clone just behind, causing Twist to double-take back at the viewport. In the milliseconds he’d looked away, all four pods had been loosed from their holds and were now streaming down madly into a zone of thickening fire. Cody was shouting into the comm on his wrist – reception was on its way out. Undoubtedly the concern over their brothers’ chances for survival was distracting, for no one was paying attention when a burning mass of plasma sheared into the side of their hull and obliterated one of four stabilizers. The salon pod rocked suddenly in a series of violent waves, sending the clones into one another’s shoulders until they managed to latch onto the seatbacks in front of them. Then slowly, the pod lolled into a spiral. Lazy at first, then faster, and faster yet as the remaining three stabilizers caught the wind in the absence of the fourth. The viewport soon showed nothing but a swirling mess of reds. All sixteen clones were braced for any kind of end to this frenzy.

The last thing they heard was the tense voice of General Kenobi over Cody’s too-quiet comm. Not even the Commander himself could decipher the words before the nose of their craft collided with the corner of Sector 6’s inventory management building, sixty-one stories of metal and transparisteel, now less a salon pod-sized chunk in its side. The pod flipped like a coin in the air. The shock ripped the clones’ hands from their grips and thrashed them without reserve. Were it not for their armor and constraints, not one of them would have lived through the first hit. Scant seconds later, the pod bounced onto pavement and slid. The booming noise was that of a bomb’s detonation right under them – the plaza certainly looked the part, too, roiling with plumes of displaced tile and dirt. Another bounce (or two, the precise pattern was beyond recognition by any clone), and the pod came to a reluctant arrest upside-down.

Nobody moved. While the pod swayed its final few sways, those clones still conscious struggled to make sense of the dark, nauseating environment. The power was out. At least the alarms were gone with it. Vision blurred, Twist fumbled at the latch holding him in place. He was spared the concussive force of his brothers packed into rows behind him. He needed to see if they were alive. But due to the spinning entrance, he failed to perceive that he was seated upside-down. As such, upon the removal of his overhead constraints, Twist was met with the curved durasteel ceiling of the pod. He groaned indistinctly. His whole body was still buzzing. He barely felt the fall. A second _crunch_ of plastoid armor rang out from somewhere inside, and Twist summoned the roots of his training to sit upright and search. Sure enough, a foggy white shape the very same as his own was morphing its way to a better position.

“How… How many of us made it?” the shape asked, groggily.

Twist comprehended the question, but only because he was about to ask it as well. He looked up at the dangling others. Arms and heads were moving. _Life_. A sigh of relief was building in his lungs at the sight, when all at once the tension bounded back on remembering the four pods speeding in under fire. The jungle of cannons could still be heard from outside in spite of the salon pod’s protective layers. He dragged his arm to his chest. The limb felt detached, in a way, like a stuttering piece of overstimulated meat. His fingers were clumsy as he tuned to their General’s channel: the hitherto-muted cabin was filled with the loud noise of static. Twist narrowed his focus and tested the channel again. Under these circumstances, he held a reasonable amount of hope that it was his own lack of coordination causing the fractured response. Just then, a sharp twang resounded from the exterior of the craft. Clones knew what _that_ was, at any grade of coherency. Both men on the ceiling peered about in sudden alert for the source, a B1’s E-5 blaster rifle shooting experimentally at the newfound intruder vehicle.

“We gotta get everyone down and _get out of here,”_ instructed Twist, setting the comm back to standby. A cool dose of composure was already diffusing into his senses. Clones simply weren’t _built_ to remain lightheaded for long.

The next few troopers to drop down did so with support. Everyone suffered from whiplash, but the degree of severity depended on their relative positions inside the cabin. A couple more blaster shots punctuated their efforts. The droids would soon be coming to investigate up close. All in all six of the pod crew total were on their feet and able. The rest were unresponsive. While five of the lucky group helped unlatch the others, the last volunteered to survey the surroundings outside. …Or so he would have, if the rear hatch didn’t seem to be welded shut. He labored alone against the manual airlock clamp as his fellows carefully laid their Commander against the sloped wall.

“Ah _kriff,_ where’s Mackenzie?” asked the clone at Cody’s right. Impatient, he probed for a pulse while their medic was identified.

“He’s out too,” reported Twist from the side of a patient of his own, “And I don’t think we can backpack all these guys to safety without a sled.”

“Then we’ll have to wake ‘em up before the droids get t’ us.”

Just then, the clone at the hatch was successful. Jerking the door open with one all-out crank to the clamp lever, the setting sun’s rays flooded in, along with a torrent of water that crashed over everyone head-to-toe. The pod was flooded instantly. The men reeled this way and that to avoid being blown over.

“Jango’s _balls!_ The bloody hell are we _sitting in?!”_ rang forth the unanimous sentiment, among other exclamations of a similar sort.

“Close it, Tongs!”

Unfortunately, with the added strength of the current to the weight of the door, Tongs barely had the power to avoid being swept away himself. “Could use a little _help_ here!” he chided as he pulled.

Cody woke to the vague sensation of a swimming pool. Through muddled perception he felt the rush of water over his skin, though he was at the same time aware that he was fully armed. _Ocean landing. …_ No oceans on Bespin. _Training exercise?_ Even in such a bleary state, Cody was still fairly convinced that his memories of the Bespin expedition weren’t made up in a dream. Instead of fishing for hints any further, he elected to test his condition and judge the predicament himself. He braced a hand against the slick wall behind him. Rising up a short ways, he was subsequently slammed with a full body pain that condensed at the base of his neck. By some means outside his recollection, he ended up back in the water. He couldn’t perceive the troopers who gathered around him then, only the agonizing pressure that threatened his head to explode. Several clones more were suffering along with him. At least they were awake.

As the ringing in his ears gave way to a sliver of ambient noise, Cody forced himself to look up. That tiny bit of movement cast a burst of bright stars over his vision. Four of his unit were now closing the opened hatch, which resisted their combined muscle stubbornly with the help of a gushing influx of water. The clones won in the end, however, and collapsed simultaneously against the door. Cody held a palm over the back of his neck and cleared his dry throat. “What’s happening? Where’re the other pods?” he demanded gruffly, sifting through the information he had in his most recent memory.

The other men were overjoyed to hear that he was capable of speaking. “We made it, sir,” responded Clips, “We landed in a… body of water, I guess. We’re all pretty well scuffed, but so far no casualties. No word from the other pods yet.”

“Did you try contacting them?” Cody interrogated next, using Clips’ shoulder without permission to haul himself onto his feet.

Twist stood up with him and offered his service as a leaning post. “Yes sir,” and then more quietly, “…Nothing but static on the other end.”

Cody took a moment to gather. Heaving on a set of sore ribs, he scanned the water reaching level with his knees. Static was inconclusive. There could be any number of reasons for a faulty comm channel, not least of all the fact that somewhere above them loomed the great comm center of over one hundred sectors between Bespin and Coruscant. Short-range comm didn’t require a relay, but it remained entirely possible that whatever signal the droids were using to interfere with Sector 6 could affect unaffiliated signals nearby. In any case, “inconclusive” wasn’t enough to stop the 212th.

“Then we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way,” Cody decided, and dropped back against the wall as he fitted his rifle with a flare cartridge. “Cannons outside mean Shadow Squadron’s still with us. We’ll use what’s left of their diversion and get to cover before the clankers come pick us off. Mossy, Clips, carry Stack and Mackenzie. The rest of us will be on your defense.” Rifle in one hand, he stretched his other arm out to elicit an audible crack from his shoulder. The pain wasn’t gone – not even _close –_ but the whole team would be experiencing a different kind of pain should they wait long enough for the cannons to rip into their pod. “Droid poppers ready, men. Tongs, get that hatch back open.”

In short order, the rear hatch was heaved open and sixteen clones emerged, climbing out against the wicked flow with nothing but sheer will and a resolve to fulfill the mission. The dark sky was alight with a sea of bright red. The web of lasers above reflected brilliantly off the pane of restless waters trying to consume the downed craft. A battery of droids was assembled as anticipated, but fell victim to a trio of EMP grenades tossed out preliminarily before the first man touched the field. Cody was at the head of the pack. Pausing in waist-deep water to let Mossy and Clips take their place in the center of the outlined formation, he held his rifle at the ready to shoot. They’d landed on Sector 6 – that much was clear. In fact, they’d landed _dead-center_ on Sector 6, right in the middle of the barren, circular plaza where a large fountain was currently drowning their pod. But with any luck, there would be ample time to marvel at their unfortunate precision later. Cody raised his rifle and triggered the flare, sending a high-pitched _crack_ over the area’s otherwise deep rumble of lasers. He wished the flare could be anything but _red_ , given the overpowering theme swarming the skies, but privately, Cody rather put the bulk of his faith in his General’s extrasensory abilities. If he was alive, the Force would guide him without anyone’s aid. If not, well, the Republic was about to have bigger problems than a group of clones leftover on this little disc over Bespin.

The men nearer the pod helping extricate Mossy and Clips came to a stop. Their visors turned to the sky in a dumbfounded way, and it wasn’t long before Cody and his forward defense recognized the cause for their distraction. Following their line of sight, a dark mass of durasteel was found hurtling into the city – cutting a chilling path straight for the plaza. _“SCATTER!”_ Cody hollered, and the men not already splashing their way frantic out of the fountain were quick on the move.


	5. Chapter 5

Sector 6 churned with four consecutive seismic bursts that cut through the overwhelming sound of cannon fire. The first tremor broke ground before the impact of the pod heading into the plaza, meaning at least one other group of clones had survived. …Probably. The thought might have been comforting for the 212th already on the move, if the landing hadn’t sent a quake through the station and put several of their unit underwater. Those who had managed to avoid tripping on their urgent path out of the fountain were able to witness it when the next pod swept over their heads with a great, foreboding shadow that esclipsed the red lights above. The spectacle was gone in the very same instant, replaced by the deafening thunder of collision just meters away. The plaza convulsed. The area was at once smothered in a thick plume of pulverized road. Fragmented tile shot through the dust, shattering windows of nearby buildings all the way up to their fifteenth floors: a hail of glass thus joined the furling tempest below. And without the convenience of close-range comm, each man enduring this upheaval was very lost indeed. For a full minute, Sector 6 was a nebulous slur of shock and bad air.

Cody dashed for the site of the nearest pod’s landing. It cleared the fountain by a wide margin he was grateful for, but that fact had little bearing on the conditions of the men trapped inside. Before his eyes the road fissured into enormous, lightning-shaped rents. Massive pools of water displaced from the fountain were draining inside, undoubtedly wreaking havoc on any exposed circuits underneath.  _So much for keeping this clean,_ he grumbled to himself. Speckles of debris cracked against his armor as he ran. Clicking his rifle onto the clips on his back, he used his free arms to tune into Obi-Wan’s channel. Just as Twist said, there was nothing but static in response. The grizzly scene of the pod came into view a mere ten meters away from its battered, steaming hull. Crater-like trenches had been dug along the pod’s path, deep and irregular until the craft bounced and left a small stretch of undamaged pavement before colliding with the third and fourth floors of the auxiliary offices building. It must have ricocheted after that, because the neighboring droid storage building suffered a similar crumbling wound just above the now-stationary pod. Cody slid carefully into the chasm dividing him from it. Just as he straightened himself and made to climb the other side, a second clone descended from behind.

“Commander!” he heard obscurely through the booming all around.

He turned his head back to the man, only to wince at the fresh pain still wringing its fingers over his neck. “This way, trooper!” he forced from himself, “Help me get these men out and check for survivors!”

Together they climbed. The station shuddered as they did, breaking old holds and forging new ones alike, but one way or another the two surmounted the ditch and stood in front of the unmoving pod. The rear hatch was out of their reach. It pointed up toward the sky at a forty-five degree angle. The muddy clone behind Cody paused at the conundrum, just long enough to see his Commander start scaling the pod without hesitation. He quickly followed suit. Crouching at the hatch facing visor-to-visor, both clones heaved the door open on Cody’s hand signal – another tremor washed over the station as they did. Everything was dark and silent inside the pit, piqued every few seconds by sparks shooting intermittently from one of the walls’ malfunctioning control panels. “This doesn’t look good, sir,” called the clone across the opening, but Cody leapt in without acknowledgement.

About a kilometer in the other direction, the third pod completed its descent after tearing through six floors of the power facilities’ maintenance offices. The roof was in shambles. Each floor in passing slowed the escape pod’s velocity, until finally the seventh floor from the top creaked, sunk, yet refused to break under the pod’s weight. Lights inside the building were flickering, fractured plumbing spraying mist over the windows inside. The hatch swung open impatiently. Having pierced the building nearly head-on, it took an extra supply of effort for the clones to climb vertically out of their hull. But thanks to the relatively soft landing, they all had that effort in stock. Switch groaned as he hoisted himself onto the pod’s rear exterior.

“…General’s not gonna be happy about this,” he commented cynically at their otherwise fortunate landing, and extended a hand in the following clone’s range. The office space was a debris-smattered wreck. Cubicles were mostly in order, but the decorations populating every one of them were strewn well away from their homes: workers weren't afforded time to pack things away when the droid army came through. Uniform computer chairs were tossed onto their sides, containers holding plants were smashed on the floor, and personal trinkets were scattered about. The last of the five men hopped down from their pod.

“We should get to the ground floor and regroup,” dictated Micro, the team’s heavy weapons specialist. His wrist comm was crackling uncooperatively as he tuned. “Sounds like the boys need us outside.”

“The lifts might be down. I say we find us a staircase and use ascension cables to drop,” added another from the team in agreement.

As the others planned their strategic entrance, Switch wandered to the windows and jiggled one open. What he saw was a nigh-incomprehensible lake of smog and ruin swallowing up the plaza below. Droids were massing upon the elevated walkway above it, marching in neat lines oblivious to the chaos and led from behind by a group of three armored assault tanks. Without uttering a word, he retrieved the blaster from his back and lined up a shot. The B1 commanding the group from the foremost AAT's top hatch lost its head less than a second thereafter. Struggling to contain a giggle fit at his small victory, Switch disappeared from the window and flattened his back to the wall.

The remaining clones were set on high alert at the shot. “ _Switch!_ You karking idiot, they’ll trace our position!” scolded Longshot.

“Cool yer turbines, Longshot,” answered Switch, “They didn’t torch the city when they took it from the locals; what makes you think they’re gonna fight back now? It’s just like the General said: damage to these buildings might affect the comm relay. Seppies want it live for _some_ reason.”

Longshot stormed forward. “You don’t think they’ll notice the blasted hole we made getting in here? If the relay’s still fine after _that_ mess, I don’t think the droids’ll mind sending return fire. Let’s get going before we-”

The building shook. Exceeding the barrage going on outside, the room’s tremor concentrated violently around the escape pod embedded in its center. Slowly, the entire floor began to sink into the next level down. The troops scampered away from the site without further argument. They each rushed to copy Switch’s position against the walls, but the infrastructure gave way regardless, and when the pod was loosed and dumped into the offices below, the rest of the floor collapsed. All five men were showered in plaster and broken supports as they fell. Slabs of cement precipitated in turn, bringing with them the office necessities tossed about from before. The ceiling was suddenly much higher.

At the southmost point of Sector 6, the ship docking area was splintered into innumerable sections, each divided by jagged vents in the ground courtesy of another pod’s landing. Obi-Wan and his four troopers were already engaged in the field nearby, having exited onto an open expanse with no cover and plenty of droids on all sides. His men returned fire onto the enemy lining the south, and Obi-Wan made use of the reception lobby’s second floor balcony. It had snapped free as a result of the Sector’s continuing quakes. It now served as a very large shield against the droid fire coming from the north, hovering delicately in the Force while the group maintained a tight formation behind it. Little by little, they moved toward the reception building on Obi-Wan’s command.

One man succumbed to the southern unit. It was difficult enough to dodge lasers within the confined space of the balcony, but even harder to dodge in such a manner that didn’t open up the General’s back to the droids’ aim. Charter spared a glance at his fallen brother as he stepped further and further away. He only hoped that his death was quick – not one of the remaining three would dare to endanger their General by retrieving their dead. And few clones were granted such an honorable death, Charter consoled, to die in direct service to their commanding officer. Because of this death, General Kenobi was allowed to live in his place. It felt like hours before the group reached the reception building’s front double doors. Right as they did, Obi-Wan clenched his fists - the smoldering balcony crunched into hundreds of tiny pieces. He pushed his arms forward, and the batch of projectiles pelted the droid army as a parting gift while the men rushed inside.

Immediately Charter hurdled over the vacant front desk in search of a lockdown button. The other two clones spread out to eliminate any droid presence inside, harmonizing their tactics perfectly without sharing a single word. Obi-Wan watched the situation unfolding outside from behind the transparisteel doors, and turned his attention away only once the lockdown was activated. Ray shields glazed over every breakable exterior surface.

“All clear upstairs,” reported one of the two clones upon his return. He stood stockstill in front of Obi-Wan with his weapon pointed down. The next trooper lined up at his side and with an identical report regarding the lobby floor.

“Good,” came Obi-Wan’s humorless reply. “Barricade the doors in the event that the shields are overloaded. Charter, I want you to mine the servers here for a map. Look for routes used by maintenance droids and any information pertaining to the communications relay. I’ll try to put us in contact with the rest of the troops.”

Whiplash was taking its toll on everyone, Obi-Wan was sure. His own vision was fuzzy, his connection to the Force addled, but he counted himself lucky to have made the pod’s landing still conscious. He couldn’t imagine how the troops could have made it out alive if they’d stepped out of their pod undefended. Not that every one of them _did_ live, anyway. The lost man’s body remained in full view outside. But it wasn’t useful in the current circumstances to reflect on his sacrifice. Better to honor it by moving the mission ahead. Obi-Wan’s wrist comm didn’t seem to agree, though, and produced only static on every channel programmed.

“Blast,” he muttered, and ambled over to the sofa at the corner of the small room. He leaned against the back of it. “Mash, would you please try contacting Cody for me? I can’t seem to pick up any signal on mine.”

Mash set down the cabinet he was carrying with a moderately out-of-breath, “Yes, sir.” He sat on the side of it and fiddled with his comm to similar effect.

“I was afraid that might happen,” Obi-Wan confirmed. He rubbed over his beard. “Carry on. I’m going to meditate for a while and locate the others. Stand guard when you’re finished- Or sit, rather. That landing wasn’t kind to any of us.”

The final pod landed near one of the four green areas on Sector 6. A long crescent of grasses and trees occupied the station’s western edge, cultivated just so to give the impression of a scenic park overlooking the radiant skies of Bespin. At present, those skies were red with lasers and black with smoke in the night. A fuming escape pod was buried precariously into the very brink of the platform, kept in place only by the contorted shards of metal that gave way on impact. Opening the hatch thus revealed unto the clones inside an uninterrupted view of the horizon – without ground to be stood on below. Pox froze briefly there, then shut the door and moved to the front of the pod with more caution than he remembered ever being trained with. The three conscious others comprehended with ease and maneuvered back with him.

“One of us should climb onto the top and set up a cable,” suggested Waxer.

“Good idea, Waxer, may the Force be with you,” saluted Pox with his back glued to the front viewport.

“Wait, now-” Waxer started to protest, but the other two joined in on Pox’s salute and wished him good luck.

On his way to the hatch, Waxer held his cable launcher with all the rigidity and concentration he’d use for a blaster. Pox hadn’t been too careful when he’d opened the hatch initially, but somehow the stakes felt innumerably higher knowing they were in fact teetering on the edge of death. Not a quick, painless one, either. If this pod fell, it would mean a slow end for them all, full awareness and the feeling of freefall before the inevitable… Waxer doused the fear from his mind. Though he was engineered to have fears, he was also given the ability to quiet them in an instant. The job would get done. That’s all there was to it. Opening the hatch a second time, Waxer was methodical and mindful with his steps. He latched the door onto the external hook. That would prevent the wind from waving it closed again, avoiding inadvertent jostling to the hull. He activated the electromagnets in his soles. Not strong enough to save him if he fell, but strong enough to give him that much better a foothold on his way up. He then began to climb. The pod seemed smaller from the outside – if that was even possible. The evening gusts were undampened without the cover of the city’s buildings, but Waxer was sure of his grip and stood on top of the pod in less time than he originally expected. He turned his head up toward the city: only the tops of the taller buildings were visible from here. But most of Waxer’s field of view was comprised by the station’s outer casing, smooth and conclusively unscalable by regular means. Ideal for an ascension cable to anchor upon. He raised his arm and shot. He appeared at the hatch shortly thereafter, a reassuring length of cable wrapped around his right forearm.

“Come on you cowards, the rope’s getting cold.”


	6. Chapter 6

One demolished cruiser glided – then _dropped_ – into the star destroyer’s hold. The repulsor engines were far beyond repair. Had Anakin been only minutes later in reentering zero gravity, he’d have found _himself_ plummeting into Bespin’s inner atmosphere. As soon as the ship crossed the airlock shield, the oxygenated, pressurized space of the hangar reignited the flames spurting from the charred gaps where the cannons on Sector 6 found their mark. Droids were already flocking to quell the emergency when the side door deployed independent of the ramp meant to accompany it. Anakin lowered his hand at the entrance, and jumped down without inspection. His next ship was already being prepared. Satisfactorily or not, the mission was now complete. And if the series of explosions on the station were to be construed as success, then he walked without the burden of having killed one of his own. The amount of assumption required for that was well beyond Anakin’s comfort zone. The word “abandonment” still rang clear in his head. All attempts at communication onto Sector 6 fell flat, and there wasn’t time to stick around while the 104 th waned unassisted in the exosphere. Still, the mission was executed with more finesse than any had anticipated. Shadow Squadron was lining up inside further off. Together with Plo they’d all planned to reassess the battle in person before setting out once again.

Ahsoka was surprised to find her Master standing restless beside her fighter as she made to hop out. The irritation he projected into the Force matched the expression painting his face. And Ahsoka knew that face well – an argument was locked and ready to be launched the moment she touched the floor. _Not this time, Skyguy. You’ve got some explaining to do._ Sparing a second to release all the anxiety incurred over the last few minutes, she leapt to the hangar floor and rose with a preemptive grimace.

Except, nobody spoke.

Forseeing some or other misplaced lecture, Ahsoka was ready to play the bigger person by listening first, and presenting a calm defense in response. Anakin, however, was waiting for his part to be prompted by a show of indignance from his Padawan. It was how Obi-Wan usually won arguments, anyway. So was the scene as Plo found them, brewing in an ugly staring fit while bottled resentment flowed out of the Force.

“It is good to see you unharmed,” he interjected diplomatically, followed by his similarly displeased commander.

“Master Plo,” Ahsoka answered as she turned, “It’s good to see you too. Master Anakin… _deposited_ the 212th, but we weren’t able to establish communications. We got here as soon as we could.”

The insinuation in her tone was just enough to tip any restraint Anakin had to this point. “Hey – it wasn’t my idea!” he disputed with a fist at his chest.

“Who _cares_ whose idea it was?!” Ahsoka argued back, just as eager to instigate a fight. “ _You_ were the one piloting the cruiser! Did you even think about what would happen if you _missed?!_ Nobody told me-! _”_

“Did I even- Are you _kidding me?!_ You think I _wanted_ to do that?! How about next time _you_ be the one Obi-Wan picks for stupid stuff like this!”

The two perpetuated this way, yelling over one another with seemingly endless reasons to criticize a job already concluded. Wolffe was practically twitching in disdain, his General’s presence the only thing keeping him from erupting with an outraged reminder that they were actively losing a naval engagement. Meanwhile Plo was unimpressed. He didn’t bother comprehending the debate beyond the fact that the mission was successful, and opted to move the agenda along by force.

 _“Enough,”_ he asserted, and the bickering was finished. “There is no time to discuss your previous assignments. We must focus on the matter at hand and come up with a way to turn this battle around.”

“Yes, Master Plo,” Ahsoka submitted obediently, though the heat of insult remained in her brow. Anakin said nothing and waited, dissatisfied, as Plo produced a holotransceiver from his pouch. Upon activation it showed the same representation as that on the destroyer’s bridge. The enemy cruisers were advancing now in a loose, sideways dome shape, no doubt designed to encircle the Republic ships like a hyperspace ring with no way to move forward. There were notably fewer green shapes from the last time Anakin saw the projection.

“As you can see, the Separatists are arranging to restrict our fleet’s movement. If they succeed, we shall have no choice but to escape by moving back through the only route available to us. …And given the _last_ ‘open route’ the Separatists provided, I’m afraid we may be walking into yet another trap.”

Ahsoka considered, pushing the business of last mission aside. “What if we concentrate all our power on the lowest cruiser right here?” she suggested, pointing at the red shape simulated to prevent the Republic warships from diving out of harm’s way. “If we can take out just this one, we can make a break for it and reappear behind them. It’ll take a while for all those ships to turn around, so we might be able to nab a second one, too.”

“You’re forgetting that _we_ need to turn around after that,” corrected Anakin. “Not to mention we’d be flanked by two other ships on the way down. We should get out of the way and circle around as a group. When the destroyers get here-“ he pointed to the side of the enemy formation, “-we can concentrate fire on this cruiser here.”

Plo tapped his center finger’s claw against his mask. “That plan could work. It would also allow us to retreat under minimal resistance.”

Both Anakin and Ahsoka startled back. “Retreat?” interrogated Anakin, voicing their shared unease, “No disrespect, Master Plo, but retreat is out of the question. If we leave here, there’s gonna be nothing between the 212th and the entire Separatist fleet.”

“I understand your concern, Skywalker, but if we choose to perish here, _no one_ will be able to retrieve them.” A renewed wave of apprehension bounced between his audience at those words. Sensing that the sentiment was reassuring to none, Plo pocketed the holotransceiver and laid a gentle hand on either Jedi’s shoulder. “Master Kenobi is resourceful. So long as we persist, he and his men will endure.”

The last of the 104th and 501st’s pilots dispersed from each of the three destroyers. Having transmitted the agreed strategy to Admiral Yularen, the only thing left for the fighters to do was disturb and distract. No squadron-sized bubbles of vulnerability could be exploited in the Separatist formation this time around. Even so, it was their high level of cohesiveness that the Republic was banking on to make a comeback. If their fleet could just make it around to the side, they’d be occluded from the enemy ships in back. Return fire would be reduced twofold, and any damage achieved to the Separatist guns would drastically even the odds.

The view from Ahsoka’s starfighter as it rose above the airlock shield was at once breathtaking and terrifying. Five gleaming titans were arranged like the incoming fingers of a colossal, greedy hand. Bespin glowed in the background, orange and mystical decorated by stars and distant planets too far away to differentiate. Narrowing her attention to a practical degree, she tuned in solely on the positions of her comrades and the laser bolts coming her way. Shadow Squadron announced their presence to one another in sequence. When it came to her turn, she contributed her call sign as Shadow Five.

“Who’s commanding these droids?” Anakin demanded over the channel shared between officers. He wrested his starfighter in strenuous loops, struggling to find a safe route for his team. “This can’t be Grievous – it’s way too organized.”

Meanwhile Plo diagnosed the field by alternative means, carrying his squadron in wide arcs that tested the extent of the enemy’s willingness to pursue. “I agree. Unfortunately with the relay station nonfunctional, we have been unable to capture the Separatists’ communications.”

“It’s probably some droid,” Ahsoka chimed in, mostly unthinking while she and the rest of Shadow Squadron hustled to follow their leader’s unpredictable flight pattern.

Yularen interrupted the budding conversation with an update on the destroyers’ flight path. “Generals, we are initiating the first phase of the plan.”

“Hold on, Admiral,” ordered Plo in return, “We are not in position.”

“There isn’t time,” Yularen argued back succinctly, the imperative inflection of his voice nearly overtaking his habitual calm. “Those cruisers are headed this way. If we wait here any longer, our route will be compromised.”

Plo considered this, and against his own opinion, granted him leave. After all, if anyone could judge the time it would take to chart three star destroyers around an upright circular blockade, it would be Admiral Yularen. “Very well. Skywalker, escort the fleet as best you can. I shall ensure that the enemy on the far side finds _us_ a more interesting target.”

“Will do, Master Plo,” Anakin accepted, and turned his receiver on standby. “…One squadron escort against a fleet, coming right up.” R2 trilled encouragement from the navigation pit.

The star destroyers turned portside in sync. Relative to the fighters and bombers whizzing around like insects, the destroyers moved with a slow, deliberate majesty paralleled only by the menacing pace of the heavy cruisers on approach. Shadow squadron fell back and swooped in an approximate V between the two beastly packs. Vultures rose to the challenge without delay. Within moments of assuming escort, the squadron was swarmed in a cloud of opposition.

“Sir! They’re on us!” came the harried narration of Shadow Nine. The formation was straggling already.

“I know!” Anakin acknowledged, spinning his own set of pursuers on and off his tail. “Evasive maneuvers! Keep the fight between us and them. They’ve got at least fifty of these things deployed right now; if we can get them all on us, they’ll block the heavy cruisers’ aim.”

“Easy for you to say!” Ahsoka complained. While she’d be the first to admit Anakin’s piloting prowess, she’d just as soon admonish his tendency to overestimate the abilities of pilots around him. Shadow Two was sending fumes out the edge of his starboard stabilizer. It wasn’t the increasing volley of cannon fire and torpedoes causing the problem per se, but the intentional concentration of ships in the area made evasion nearly as hazardous as just taking the hit. Of course, Anakin was above the threat of collision. His fighter wove through webs of autonomous ships like the whole scene was choreographed. He swept over the team by a hair’s width, confounding the courses of Vultures who came up too close. In an impromptu sort of way, Shadow Squadron was divided into new roles comprised of luring, defending, and above all, avoiding. The destroyers went on unhindered as a backdrop.

Down and away from the more immediate task, the Wolfpack agitated the farthest cruisers. Fewer than one third the squadron’s original count now remained in action. Here the cruisers themselves were engaged, making full use of their trove of artillery in place of the mass attack via smaller ships utilized overhead. Despite the implication, Plo was hesitant to believe this indicated the Separatists’ lack of additional fighters. By this time the clones of his unit were well-acquainted with the arsenal they faced. The familiarity didn’t directly translate into a counterattack, though it did help the men prevent further casualties. Due to both group’s immersion in their respectively unbalanced skirmishes, nobody noticed that the Separatist ships nearest the bulk of the Republic fleet were no longer in motion. Only when the cruisers nearest Plo began to turn did the puzzle fall into place: the enemy formation was moving right along with the destroyers. There would be no advantage in occlusion. Reaching the designated waypoint, the Republic would be in precisely the same predicament as before, now unhelpfully rotated at ninety degrees. It was unthinkable to expect such a concerted dynamic – the droids would require a positively hive-minded response rate to achieve a full formation maneuver like this. What was more, they’d need to have accurately predicted the destroyers’ path at about the same time they started turning. But analysis could come later. Yularen and Plo broadcast the warning over comm almost simultaneously.

“Admiral! They’ve figured out the plan!” Plo alerted with a finishing shot to the adjacent cruiser’s long range cannon.

“The Separatist formation is following our route!” mirrored Yularen from the helm.

No member of Shadow Squadron was at leisure to respond. The horde of Vultures was all-consuming, deadly even in the form of debris cutting tracks in the transparisteel canopies of fighter cockpits. Most ships were discharging some or other vital gas, and every one of them suffered dents in the very least. The crossfire was blinding and chaotic, and then suddenly, the droids were dispersed. Those same long range cannons used to deceive the 104th at the outset of today’s battle were charging as they fled.

“What in the…?” was all Anakin reacted with before Plo comprehended the situation and barked urgent orders to follow the Vultures’ example.

The cannons were loosed. Clustered alongside the more regular bombardment of lasers, the Separatist warships delivered a collective broadside assault to the star destroyer staged just behind the 501st. The gargantuan torrent of laser pierced straight through the squadron on its way, vaporizing three fighters instantly and singeing four more. The cannon within the 104th’s range had been crippled out of capacity. When it attempted to fire, the site burst in a bright spray of reds. Several of the fighters in proximity bore scorch marks thereafter. But the greatest damage was done. The afflicted destroyer lurched in slow motion. It gargled a whirlwind of flame at the new gash, precious oxygen flowing into space along with countless lives inside.

Unabashed horror froze over the Force. The droids were unsympathetic. Seconds passed like hours for sentient beings aware of the atrocity committed, but the offense did not cease. The battle was over. The Separatists were simply cleaning the slate.

 _“Retreat,”_ announced Plo with abhorred finality.

The notion shocked everyone back to real time.

“Wait- _wait!”_ urged Anakin, caught in a dazed state of desperation.

 _“I said RETREAT,_ Skywalker. Order your squadron to regroup at the commanding destroyer. This has gone on long enough.”

Anakin pulled a distressed hand through his hair and searched his flight controls for a miracle solution.

“…Sh-Shadow squadron-” Ahsoka began warily in the absence of his response.

Anakin punched the control board. It had no answers to give. “Shadow squadron… Fall back.”


	7. Chapter 7

The destroyers orbiting placidly above Coruscant were far out of sight as several carriers full of soldiers and crewmen landed in the hangars of the Jedi temple. Anakin was quiet for most of the trip down, comforted little by Ahsoka’s reassurance while Plo finished documenting the operation.

“We must bring this to the Council immediately,” he said as the LAAT doors opened onto sunny concrete terrace. The clones packed inside were dispersed in the blink of an eye.

“I’ll go too,” asserted Ahsoka. She fell into step beside Plo, who walked with definitive purpose, head angled down at the datapad in his hand. They were already late to report. The periodic updates that traditionally accompanied critical missions such as these were impossible given the nature of their task, meaning the Council was entirely in the dark from the time of departure. It was certain to trouble them all to hear that the Separatist fleet was still at large.

“…Master?” Ahsoka turned around in search of him. Counter to expectation, Anakin was not attending the same path. He could be seen through the crowd falling further and further behind, pacing in the opposite direction as that leading to the temple’s central spire. Noting Ahsoka growing distant in the Force, Plo hesitated as well. He lifted his eyes, and after a moment’s observation, followed hers instead.

“It appears he does not intend to report with us. What a shame – Skywalker is currently our best estimate of Master Kenobi’s plans. He neglected to share them with you or I.”

Ahsoka tensed at the reminder. “Wait for me, Master Plo.” And she jogged away, dodging clones without lowering her speed of pursuit.

Anakin walked in long strides toward the civilian terminal. The nagging impetus was there no doubt, telling him he was _supposed_ to go speak with the Council, but louder was the weeping in his heart for the loss of lives and the abandonment of his Master. He needed Padmé. She would know what to say. She was something pure in this hellish war, untainted by the clinical upbringing of the Jedi, and she wouldn’t scold him for _feeling_ something over the day’s overwhelming despair. The Council could figure things out by themselves. And without Obi-Wan in their midst, it was even less likely than usual they’d pay a credit’s attention his opinions, anyway.

If only Ahsoka would understand.

“Hey, where’re you going?” she asked as she caught up to his side, so earnest, so _Jedi_ in her confusion that anyone might prefer a _break_ to this constant turmoil.

“I have a meeting,” Anakin grunted out. He hoped that the obvious layer of ice frozen over his bearing would send her away, but Ahsoka remained unconvinced.

“A meeting?” The puzzlement was clear on her face. “But what about Master Obi-Wan? You’re the expert here. It would really help if you talked to the Council with me and Master Plo; we should take care of the Separatist fleet as soon as possible before-”

“I _WILL!_ ” He stopped in his tracks and faced her then, wide eyes and all. Clones nearby were respectful enough to avert their curiosity away from the scene. “Okay?! I _will!_ I’m just as worried as you are! Just-” Anakin deflated, his outburst giving way to the fatigue underlying. “…Just give me a minute, would you?”

Ahsoka was taken aback. She’d always known her Master wasn’t as… Structured, as others in the Temple, but to see him looking as defeated as he did there before her, she wasn’t sure how to proceed. She’d only assumed it natural to move forward, thereby minimizing the time the enemy was free to do as they pleased. Plo shared the same sentiment, she knew: anguish was an emotion to be recognized. It signaled the urgent requirement to act, yet Anakin responded uniquely. Words failing, she simply nodded a curt nod and allowed him to continue along his way. Surely he knew what was best.

 

\- - -

 

Scraps of ceiling sprinkled down onto a group of ten clones taking refuge inside what was left of the power facilities’ lobby. The cannons outside were relentless. Every shot spread a new wave of flame, lighting up the night and breaking caverns ever-deeper into the heart of Sector 6. Another J-1’s heavy shot collided with the battlefield just beyond the ray-shielded doors: the view outside was instantly occluded in a veil of ear-splitting blackness. All that remained of the idyllic architecture of the grand plaza was now a ruin of smoldering craters. Only one of the 212th was capable of traversing the molten arena with agility enough to survive, and so he did without most senses available to him but that of the Force. Obi-Wan leapt from pit to simmering pit with his lightsaber cutting bright through the smog. Across the way and surrounded by droids huddled seven clones more, trapped in an alley with nothing but a downed escape pod for cover. Half these men were unconscious or wounded.

In a flash of blue, four droids in the rear of the group were sheared through their middles and fell into stuttering halves. The ranks were slain from behind in blinding succession thereafter, ripping a sizeable hole in the enemy offense until at last the culprit was appreciated. The droids turned as one. As desired, the residual population rained fire onto the most lethal target nearby. Obi-Wan pledged absolute concentration then on deflecting their shots, willing his Commander to realize the opportunity he’d made.

Though shrouded by smoke, Cody could readily guess the reason for the droids’ sudden interest in a focal target away from his troops – he only hoped that the General wasn’t going it alone. A series of accentuated hand signals spurred the small party to action. Succinctly gathering up their wounded, the four able men skirted round the opposition and dashed for any site of refuge. They were met instead with ravenous canyons of steaming debris. But there was nowhere else to run. Close-range comm was out, so Cody signaled the group to form up single-file and replicate his movements as they raced along the thin ground between craters. His gear at least would simulate geography beyond the unseeable. The turbid ground was lashed with quakes as they went, sending a man every so often tumbling to his doom, inexplicably being raised to his feet at the very next second. Nobody questioned. Everyone ran. As if by magic, paths were assembled where dead-ends were reached, and slabs of brick were paused in midair just as they’d have smashed into the troops. No droids were encountered, though cleanly severed parts were strewn here and there. It was the clones’ job to just _move._ The rest was taken care of.

Little by little the glow of the ray-shielded lobby floor was becoming visible up ahead. No doubt this was the landmark they were so mysteriously guided toward, but those thoughts were unimportant right now. Cody was out of breath as he approached the front doors. The weight of the man over his shoulder was certainly exacerbating every fracture he’d previously sustained. Thankfully, he wasn’t made to wait long out in the open – the shields were soon folded into triangular puncta that blinked out of existence like a tiny red galaxy in of itself. The doors swept aside. A shining white gate broke through the murk and welcomed his group away from the disastrous maelstrom outside.

“Commander!” some number of voices shouted at once. Forgiving hands reached out and supported their brothers in sync. The unconscious were relieved from the group, laid carefully alongside the others near the conflictingly extravagant collection of sofas formerly composing the lounge area. Cody thought he gave orders. _Get out there and assist the General,_ he felt himself say, though in truth he was sliding down the wall he’d at some point started using in place of his legs. The tile was fading from view. _Not now_ , he compelled himself brusquely, failing to notice the clones hanging distressed at his side. He thrust himself back onto his feet – and into their precautionary arms. Similar voices swam in a whirlpool around his periphery. Or were those his own? They all sounded the same, strangely enough, for any clone’s voice was perfectly distinguishable by his difference in intonation under regular circumstances. _Doesn’t matter. Keep with the mission, soldier. Go find the General._ Every thread of clarity Cody shoved into his mind was efficiently obstructed by the flashes coming more and more frequent between the long moments he blinked. He was better than this. The _Republic_ was better than this. He fought with himself brutally, unfeeling, and further fought with the troopers bidding him warily to the impromptu triage station.

“ _Get off’a me_ , lousy bunch’ve _nannies_ …” he may or may not have cursed, when a second group of clones staggered in through the doors. The last of the bunch was delivered in tow, twisted deranged over Obi-Wan’s strained shoulders. It remained indeterminate which of the pair was bleeding enough to cause the remarkable staining of red that melded between them.

“He’s still alive,” was all that was said.

Two clones were both cautious and quick enough to extract their new patient without agitation. Obi-Wan faltered nonetheless, just a hair too late in anticipating the return to his natural sense of balance without the weight he had born. Straightening back to immaculate posture, he struck a fist against his fast-beating chest. That was just over half the men down. The rest would be somewhere mislaid in this mess, likely scattered in sparse groups of five if the best outcome was assumed. There was no time to waste. Lingering could easily cost lives. Obi-Wan turned to the doors with a harsh squeeze at the muscle connecting his right shoulder, readying himself for the next surge of enemy shots.

As he made to reembark, the same shoulder was suddenly clasped by Cody’s gloved grip.

Obi-Wan paused in his stride. Both men were far too absorbed in the battle for words. At times like these, exhaustion was secondary, and only the pinnacle warrior rose to the top. Obi-Wan sensed, rather than saw, a primal devotion to serve at his side. He needn’t explanation for the resolution pulsing aggressive through the Force. Exclusively one person ever harbored such a brand of tenacity, and Obi-Wan grinned at the thought. Few were so fortunate to have someone like Cody standing vigilant in spite of all odds. He lifted his hand. Fingertips but brushed against the plastoid of Cody’s helmet, and the poison of sleep was injected so potent, that even he couldn’t help but succumb to its strength.

The Commander crumbled against his fierce will. Obi-Wan fondly watched as he fell, preconceiving the event when the captivated soldiers stepped forward to intervene. Even without the guidance of a superior they acted in flawless unity. _With_ a superior… Obi-Wan left the troops’ sanctuary in ironclad confidence that upon his Commander’s awakening, their men would prevail in his stead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started to dump my Star Wars stuff from AO3 onto fanfiction.net. Same username, [Spectersticks](https://www.fanfiction.net/~spectersticks).  
> Did you know that fanfiction.net doesn't include Adi Gallia as a character, but includes "Super Battle Droids" as a character? That's right, every last B2 exists as a single entity on fanfiction.net. Even better, "Clones" is also a character. Oh, fanfiction.net.


	8. Chapter 8

“My algorithm is performing above expectation,” boasted Wat Tambor from the distant comforts of a Separatist heavy cruiser drifting high above Bespin. He abandoned the warship’s bridge some time ago, so assured in his AI’s success that he retired to the conference room to report his victory before the battle was over. Grievous, having been sent to oversee the trial in the event Tambor’s confidence was misplaced, remained on the bridge in a simmering state of rivalry.

The hologram of Count Dooku projected upon the conference table feigned an appropriate level of praise. “You have indeed driven out the Republic fleet,” he readily complied, “But it has not escaped my notice that Kenobi was allowed to make contact with Sector Six.”

Tambor’s relaxed disposition crystallized then into a rigid display of defense. He sat up straight, and tuned his vocabulator to prepare for a lengthy retort. “The droids down there were not using my protocol. The fact that the Jedi broke through their formation only _proves_ that their standard programming is inferior to mine. They do not _predict!_ They only _react!_ Their calculative abilities are slow. They still function as individual units, limited by the processing capacity of that outdated cyborg you call Grievous. If the Separatist Alliance invests more in my research, even your ground units will become unstoppable.”

Dooku passively endured the heated rant as reward for the Republic’s naval devastation. “I understand your skills are impressive, Wat Tambor, though apparently not impressive enough to prevent the Jedi from breaching the atmosphere. Your hand remains at fault. Before deciding to fund such… _unreliable_ results, I expect unerring efficiency from your next demonstration.”

Below the table Tambor’s fists were clenched in vexation. The amount of free labor that went into this prototype’s development was exorbitant already, but wasn’t it customary for the Count to squeeze every last drop out of a situation that played remotely into his favor. “Speaking of which,” Dooku continued nonchalant, “The homogenous nature of your AI depends upon each droid’s ability to receive a uniform stream of information, am I correct?”

“Yes, my lord,” Tambor replied warily.

“And it is also the case that this stream is composed of each droid’s constant transmission to one another? Tell me, does this transmission not utilize our recently secured relay station on Bespin?”

 _…Jedi scum._ The pieces were falling in place. “Yes. …My lord.”

“Then surely you must be aware, that should Kenobi disrupt the relay you have so graciously invited him to, your little project will not merely _fail_. In addition to disabling our fleet, our enemy will gain unhindered access to the droids’ communication network. The Republic shall learn of your design, rendering it obsolete for our military purposes.”

Tambor stood hastily from his seat. “Then I will _destroy_ that station! The Jedi will perish along with it!”

Dooku watched on, unenthused with his fingers laced tight behind his lower back. “I see your machines outwit you again. The station still _stands_ because it is of use to us. If you have not yet noticed, we currently have the luxury of operating while the Republic is blind. In order to preserve such an advantage, I shall send Grievous to eliminate Kenobi without causing further damage to our relay.” He paused to absorb the stark look of spite visible through Tambor’s elaborate mask. “It would seem I was right to assign him above you.”

 

\- - -

 

The station’s forested park was consumed in a bright, billowing inferno. Flaming tidal waves crested over the tops of the trees, gorging themselves on every exposed bit of greenery and suffocating the park’s full expanse. Hot, ashen winds flowed out everywhere from within. They whipped callously at Obi-Wan’s face where he stood above this catastrophic sea, marveling solemn from atop one of four mountainous cooling towers. It was near-impossible to sense anything underneath. Still, it was undeniably _here_ where he’d felt the familiar mettle of clones not an hour ago while he was yet privileged enough to sift out their locations in the Force. He couldn’t say if anyone was alive now, but to Obi-Wan, finding out for sure was well worth the effort. Another cannon bolt punctuated his thoughts and plunged into the growling riot of flame. He crouched in preparation to dive. Evidently the droids knew there was life left here, too.

Down on the ground the five men in question scrambled desperately through a burning, dilapidated canopy. Everything inside was alight. Broken trees and fiery brush filled the pits left by cannon work, altogether shaping a vicious labyrinth that the clones climbed through and battled with. Waxer tried in futility to comm the others in failing formation behind. He wasn’t expecting the signal to go through, but with the smoke peaking on opaque, it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay in each other’s sights. Nobody even heard it when a tree crushed one of their own merely meters away. To pause was to die. As they each ran at the speed that their obstacles allowed them, their attention steadily waned. The original idea was to charge on as a group, but much by necessity things were devolving to individual and ad hoc survival tactics.

Waxer catapulted himself over something which might have once been a bench. He landed in a roll, sending sparks every which way from the thick groundcover of kindling leaves and branches. On standing he startled back – an incandescent pillar of hedges barred his way forward. He instead tore through a thin bush at right, stumbling in surprise when he was not met with another trial beyond it. The clearing before him, though surrounded by flame and dead grass, showed a two-story cabin with a large plaque labeled, “RECREATION OFFICE.” To Waxer, it simply read, “cover.” Looking up, he could just barely discern the direction of laser fire. He dashed round the building to the side opposite and flattened himself to the wall. It wouldn’t be safe to remain here long-term, though it was reasonably safe to assume that the building would take at least one shot before losing its value as a shield: plenty of time to gather his bearings and figure out his next move.

The first thing Waxer noticed was that he was utterly alone. Afforded a moment to process, he realized he couldn’t determine the point at which he and his brothers were separated. It was disturbing to imagine them still trapped in that jungle-like nightmare, but a blind rescue was akin to suicide. They all understood. Better that one man makes it out to report for them all. … _Report. Right._ The next thing that came to Waxer’s mind was that since landing on Sector 6, he and his group had no indication that anyone else of the 212th had survived along with them. It was, quite alarmingly, worth serious consideration that he might be the only Republic representative running around amidst a swamp of heavily-armed droids. Waxer was shaking the notion back to something more practical when a decorative patch of reed-like plants rustled and snapped across the way. He drew the pistol from his side and took aim.

As he was shuffling behind an overturned vending machine, the stubborn reeds were incinerated by way of a blaster bolt. Just like Waxer himself, a second clone with a dense layer of singe marks toppled ungracefully out from the woods. Under different conditions, the spectacle may have been something to laugh at, but as it were Waxer found himself holstering his gun and racing out to assist in whatever manner he could.

“Hey- _Hey!”_ he called out ambiguously over the roar of the flames. The other man was scraping his balance together then, and from the corner of his eye saw a fast-moving target rushing his way. His rifle raised instinctively. It was only Waxer’s reflexes that saved him from receiving a clean hole to the belly. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he yelled with hands raised, “It’s me, alright? It’s Waxer.” The tremendous noise all around rendered speech unintelligible. But with his first lucid glance at a similarly scorched clone, Pox lowered his rifle happily. “Ha!” he barked in weary celebration, “Glad I’m not the only one who showed up!”

The two secluded themselves behind the building as Waxer had just before. Throughout the next few minutes they shouted over the rumble and crashing of deforestation, ultimately deciding it best to venture a sprint through the woods in the same direction as the enemy shots. The hope was to come upon the station’s unforested edge, and thereafter travel along it until they reached the cityscape where they would resume the hunt for their brothers and General. Plans weren’t made in the case they were the only two left. Waxer stood with his right hand outstretched. Pox took it unhesitatingly, pulling himself to his feet in defiance of the stinging sensation in his left leg. Their visors met with a nod. Waxer led the way out at a jogging pace, but slowed to a stop as the blazing woods before him began to quiver unnaturally. A fearful glance back at Pox was all he was able to do. An entire tree was suddenly thrust into the clearing at rocket-like speed, slicing others in its wake and showering the area in a downpour of splinters. The clones stood stock-still.

Out from the newly-hewn hole in the woods staggered Obi-Wan and two clones more. Their General concentrated on excluding the pervasive smoke from his lungs, while one soldier behind ferried the other slumped over his back. None of the group looked particularly well-off. Pox limped as Waxer ran to greet them. “General!” he yelled inaudibly, though somehow Obi-Wan interpreted nonetheless.

“Waxer,” he recognized promptly, smiling in Pox’s direction next. “I had a feeling you two wouldn’t be discouraged so easily.” A precursory glance around the clearing stole the mirth from his presence. “…Though I see you haven’t been able to find our last man.”

Waxer removed his helmet then to ask for a louder repeat, and was succinctly assaulted by smoke so heavy he felt his throat constrict on the very first inhale.

“No – you’re better off keeping that on,” Obi-Wan cautioned hypocritically. Waxer was hardly of the mind to criticize as he struggled between coughing and refitting the protective oxygen supply. As he regained his ability to speak, the clone carrying their unconscious fellow called out from behind.

“Over here!” he signaled with his free hand waving, drawing everyone’s attention to the civilian viewing platform docked at the rear of the recreation house. The platform consisted of a translucent green rectangle with three rows of two benches each. A small aisle divided the seats, making for a configuration similar to that of a very small bus. The clone aboard the platform was already laying his comrade down along a bench when he was joined by the rest of the group. Obi-Wan dabbled with the holographic panel at front.

“Good find, Tracey,” he congratulated as he typed, “We should be able to use this to-”

Every man flinched as the recreation office erupted in a thunderous discharge of heat. Clones were hurled onto the luminescent floor, and when they looked up, the sky was precipitating with thousands of meteors of debris – the droids had discovered their flame-shielded bastion. Through haze-covered vision Pox observed himself being hoisted back up in the seconds that followed. He felt his body being manipulated by invisible puppet strings, mastered by some divine authority outside his perception. _So this is the Force_ , he had scant time to think, before Obi-Wan ordered him to take point at the platform controls. The rest of the men fumbled into a crouching position using the benches as miniscule cover. Obi-Wan forwent the defense that the others assumed, and wobbled to a wide stance with his palms spread in front. Pox spared him a glimpse as his fingers trailed across the holographic keys. The platform detached from the dock with a lurch. At the same time, luminous walls formed around the hovering platform’s perimeter, signaling the craft’s intention to rise above a height where it was safe enough to fall. Pox nodded briefly at his success. The controls were decently simple, he figured out soon enough. Sliding a projected bar upward, the frail carrier rose into the sky.

Pox jerked the lateral controls awkwardly to avoid tendrils of flame and falling debris. His brothers attached themselves to the benches with durasteel grips, though Obi-Wan teetered off-balance in harm’s way. He kept his arms out, head level and fingers flexed, and finally, the large tree having formerly served as a battering ram floated up from below. It came to a stop between the platform and the enemy shots, granting a small but invaluable amount of protection to the team.

“Nice work, General!” Pox commended as he steered, but the praise went unheard. He next slid the forward thrusters to max when the platform reached the very tops of the incandescent trees. The resulting speed was almost laughably _slow._

“Can’t you make this thing go faster?!” shouted a clone from behind. Cannonfire was unnervingly _nearer_ than it was down in the clearing _._ Undoubtably, the platform was designed to accommodate a leisurely ride over the park, probably built to impress potential investors on a nicer day when the forest wasn’t a cyclone of flame. Pox swept through menu after menu searching furiously for an engine override switch. At this rate, the J-1 cannons would vaporize them all with minutes to spare. The first piece of evidence lending credit to this prediction was the waterfall of plasma and shrapnel that sheared off the opposing face of the tree that Obi-Wan carried. Smoldering fragments bounced onto the floor from above. Not even a primitive ceiling stood in the way of attack.

Obi-Wan reeled from the hit. The cannon’s brute power slammed against his control of the Force, and he knocked into Pox as the remnants of the tree dissolved from his grasp. Pox turned and adjusted himself instantly; Obi-Wan caved into his arms. “Hang in there, sir,” he spurred on unyieldingly, facilitating his General’s return to his post and the subsequent upheaval of a second, equally massive torch in the shape of a tree. But it still wasn’t enough. Just as soon as Obi-Wan managed to lift the pillar to a defensive height, another shot shattered the tree into fractional bits. It winded him to put up even one such shield. Given the ease with which the droids seemed to be sweeping them off, Obi-Wan doubted he’d be able to sustain this strategy for long. A sharp, pinching feeling dotted over the most of his skin, and the smoke wasn’t helping his depleted concentration, either. He huffed in disappointment at his own shortcomings. There had to be another way. With a glance back to the city, Obi-Wan judged that the power facilities building wasn’t terribly far off. It was readily identifiable as the only skyscraper with a gaping hole in the top. Just another tree’s worth or two, and the clones would be ready to launch.

The platform inched along at a languid pace over voracious plains of fire. The third tree uprooted from below had Obi-Wan blinking in and out of wakefulness, and its overpowering destruction sent him skidding onto his back. From the debris-smattered floor he could see the targeted building in outline. It was wishful thinking to believe he’d reserved enough strength to land every man on the roof, so with an unwieldy push to his feet, he summoned the whole platform’s collection of charred wood. The pieces compacted upon his command. He strained perilously to put the full strength of his will behind them, and with a final boost of urgency, struck his arm forward. The hastily constructed missile took off at astonishing speed. It plowed a considerable opening in the side of the power facilities building obscured through the smog, and Obi-Wan wasted no time between creating said entryway and claiming his first passenger. Clones were intuitive. Though Obi-Wan wasn’t so enthralled at the prospect of tossing his men around like toys, he trusted them to adapt, and overall preferred to afford each of them the chance to survive over drowning in the hell they drifted above so precariously. He expelled all the air from his lungs. He subdued the excessive noise all around, and let everything fade into darkness but the path needed to land this precious soldier to safety. He then drew his breath. A swing of the arm and the clone was cast airborne at an angle ideal to secure his best landing.

Two more after that, and one man in need of escort. The cannons wouldn’t wait for him to finish. Anticipating the next shot, Obi-Wan turned to muster forth just one final tree, then the rest of the crew could be off. He only needed to last long enough for that.


	9. Chapter 9

Bleak flickers of light trickled into the twelfth floor of the power facilities office from the vacuous hole in its side. Plaster and concrete had been blown in upon impact, demolishing furniture and plumbing alike, causing the ceiling to drain water onto the floor in steady streams. Compared to the fires outside, this new environment was eerily tranquil and cool. Pox levered half a desk off himself from within a nest of pulverized wall. The room was still hazy with dust when he looked up. He couldn’t rightly remember landing in a place like this, but he vividly remembered the terror of flying over a flaming battlefield. Evidently this must have been his intended destination. An exploratory scan of the area showed he wasn’t the only one to have survived the trip – Waxer could be seen nearer the broken wall’s gaping mouth, already dragging himself up and out of a heap of smoldering wood.

Pox struggled to match pace. His arms were in sore-but-working order, though his legs were buried under mounds of immovable concrete. He had his armor to thank for being able to feel them at all. As he shimmied and pushed to little effect, the pile suddenly shifted from the top. Pox looked up. Shouldering off the more manageable pieces was Waxer, having demonstrated his good condition by moving to Pox’s side.

“Thanks,” he grunted in return. Waxer relished that he was able to hear his comrade with the rumble of flames as an afterthought.

Pox made his way onto numb feet with a moderate level of assistance. As he adapted, a grating screech of metal broke through the atmospheric sounds of water and muffled commotion outside. Both men froze in step. They located the bending, budging door across the way, and with a stern kick from the other side, Switch succeeded in manually bypassing the door’s nonfunctional motion sensors. He ducked into the slow-flooding room through the warped opening. A thin cone of light split through the darkness where he stood.

“Hey- _Survivors!”_ he shouted in hoarse delight. Two battered suits of plastoid were illuminated from the beacon on his helmet. Switch carried a pistol in one hand as he trudged through rubble over to them, the other hand busy cradling his drooping right arm at the elbow. He couldn’t help but notice then, that in spite of the large, irregular hole in the wall, there was no escape pod in sight. A plethora of charred wood seemed to substitute where the pod was supposed to be. “…Wait,” he peered about in confusion, “How did you even _get in_ this cruddy place?”

Waxer was about to relate the haphazard details of their adventure, but on hearing the question his blood ran cold. He abandoned the other two clones on the spot and waded through the broken office as fast as the wreckage would let him.

“Oh this is not good,” he absently panicked as he searched, “Not good, not good.”

Switch intuited that a man or two had been buried. But before he had the chance to verify, Pox jolted to action, smacking his headlight on, too. “Damn it, whole thing’s a mess,” he added in frustration.

“Listen, I’ll help you guys find your team,” offered Switch, “But I’ve got a team of my own upstairs that needs our help _now_. Can’t lift squat on my own with this arm. We don’t find anyone here in five minutes, we go rescue the others. Deal?”

“No deal,” Waxer declined without second thought. “General’s in our party. …Or at least he was just a minute ago.”

Switch’s eyebrows skyrocketed beneath his helmet. “He made it down!”

“Doesn’t mean he’s still _alive_ , laserbrain,” scolded Pox, “Now quit gawking an’ start digging.”

A trail of shattered glass littered the floor from a broken window two stories down. And the end of the trail lay two bedraggled shapes, tangled loosely on a thin bed of shards. Obi-Wan’s fingers twitched where they fell beside his head. Dim flashes came into view above him, amorphous blotches reflected on the ceiling from the bombardment outside. Everything felt too cold and humid. Grinding an elbow back into the tile, he raised himself to appreciate his surroundings: corporate, comfortable, and definitively abandoned. The landing was a success – or so Obi-Wan thought, before it became acutely apparent that the man at his side was no longer perceptible in the Force.

Abruptly he thrust himself to his knees. He was immediately stricken with a sharp pang in his back, and crumpled forward automatically. An arm shot forth to brace himself over top of the clone. Reaching around with the opposite arm, Obi-Wan came upon a solid piece of _something_ lodged in to the left of his spine.

“Oh, _brilliant,”_ he grumbled irascibly.

But at least he could yet move and speak. The same couldn’t be said for the motionless form merely centimeters away. If he was simply unconscious, he’d have been unconscious for a very long time indeed. Obi-Wan already knew that wasn’t the case. Nevertheless he held his palm over the fallen man’s helmet, more indicative than pulse, and drew it back in somber confirmation. He’d neglected to check if he was alive before launching them both from the platform. In the heat of battle it was easier to assume.

Glass crunched under his boots as Obi-Wan heaved himself upright. He lingered there for a time, senses adjusting to the chilly, unpolluted air, wounds flaring to life without the shroud of adrenaline to mask them. All the while, the pale void in the Force stared back from the dead clone on the floor. The more Obi-Wan watched, the more tired he grew. _Nick,_ he recalled the poor trooper’s name. A name given by his brothers, entrusted to the 212th, now lost like so many others to the realities of war. Another irreversible mistake to be chalked up under Obi-Wan’s account.

Ruminating like this, alone in the nighttime shade, he was caught off-guard by the boisterous noises above. His mind snapped back to the present and his senses were opened again. Attachment had hitherto prevented him from detecting the vibrant sentience percolating down through the ceiling and up through the floor. There were men still in need of his help.

Lightsaber glowing to light the way ahead, Obi-Wan stepped into the stairwell. The clatter was amplified from here. He climbed the two watery flights separating him from the increasing feeling of obstinacy, and paused at the top when his body refused to go on. While he no longer had to compete with fire for breathable air, the aftereffects were more formidable than he would have liked. Turning his gaze up, he saw that the door leading into the main office space was impressively distorted. His troops were persistent, he was proud to attest. The malformed door did not react as Obi-Wan staggered forward. _Predictable,_ he lamented. He cleared his throat once, rolled his shoulders back, and gripped the hilt of his weapon in both hands as he plunged its beam through.

Switch, Waxer and Pox looked back from the victim they were pulling from the wreck. A neatly carved circle dropped into the room with a _bang_ , its molten edges sizzling against the layer of water running over the floor. Obi-Wan waved the steam from his path as he entered.

“Is everyone all right?” he asked urgently. The three clones’ headlights bore into him as one.

“Sir!” rejoiced Switch, complemented likewise by the cascade of relief they all sent into the Force. Pox finished dragging out their fellow so Waxer could let go of the table that pinned him in place.

“Boy am I glad to see _you,_ sir,” Pox introduced, lugging himself on his bad leg to stand at attention in front. “We’ve got three out of four from everyone you shipped over. This one here says there’s another group somewhere up top.” He hiked a thumb in Switch’s direction.

“That’s good news,” Obi-Wan approved, “The rest of the men are in this building on the bottom floor. If we can recover those remaining upstairs, we will be fully regrouped and ready to infiltrate the relay station proper. Pox, Switch, I want you two to head down and meet with the others. Waxer, take Tracey and follow along. I’ll see what I can do about our missing companions.”

“Yes, sir,” the three obeyed with salute.

Switch started back toward the stairwell then, but Pox was straying further inside.

“Stairs are this way, soldier, weren’t you payin’ attention?”

“Well the _lift_ is _this_ way. I’ll make it down on this leg if I have to, but I’m thinkin’ the lift would make _all_ our lives easier.” Pox pressed the call button.

“The whole island’s in emergency shutdown y’dolt, what makes you think-”

The lift doors opened with a congenial _ding._

The only one more aggravated than Switch at the sound was Obi-Wan.

A load of disabled men was thus delivered to the lobby floor. Mackenzie was awake by this time, though his medical expertise was limited to instruction from his confined place on the flower-patterned loveseat. He shouted directions to those cognizant enough to work. Everyone’s medkit was forfeit to the effort, pooled in orderly convenience on the combined surface of all tables available in the lobby. Pox, Switch and Tracey were admitted for triage the moment they arrived. Waxer, however, continued to browse through the crowd seeking permission to return with a rescue group to the twelfth floor. He sifted through clones in a variety of conditions, scanning their armor and markings deliberately before his search came to a halt at the gold-colored sofa housing Cody’s unmoving form. _…Oh. Well that explains it,_ Waxer thought, regarding the uncharacteristic extent of anarchy the triage site had assumed. He scanned the troops for the next man in charge. _That’ll be… Lieutenant Twist, right?_ But no image came to mind associated with the name. _Ah, sod it all._

Waxer jiggled Cody’s non-antenna shoulder. Knowing him well enough, he figured Cody would appreciate the wake-up, anyway. “Sir,” he called insistently. Cody stirred from his sleep on the second, more vigorous round, feeling about for the top of the sofa which he used to haul himself up. He rubbed a hand over the side of his aching neck.

 _“Agh…_ ” he groaned painfully, “Where am I?”

Obligingly, Waxer began to recite his interpretation of the battle so far, but it soon became clear that the Commander was disinterested in hearing it. More fixated was he on the disorderly state of his troops, as evidenced when he pried himself into a standing position and started reorganizing duties according to rank and medical certification. It took Cody all of two minutes to analyze the situation, set up a watch/transport team, and assign troopers to patients based on their respective hierarchy of certification and severity. He then sat back down. Heeding the flash flood of discipline, Waxer felt it prudent to wait for his turn to be called.

But right as Cody looked up to address his request, the elevator doors were opening once more, and Obi-Wan slogged into view with another clone slung over his back. Cody’s final thread of tolerance snapped. He stood once again, undeterred by his wounds, and a shiver stole over Obi-Wan’s frame from across the long room.

“Uh, sir,” Waxer attempted as he shadowed Cody’s fast strides, “There’s still a few survivors upstairs; with your permission, I’d like to…” His voice diminished as they reached the site of the new patient’s transfer. In adequate lighting such as this, it was blaringly conspicuous how very ragged and charred their General had become.

“General,” Cody prompted with well-concealed rage.

Obi-Wan turned with an amicable, fraudulent smile. He had to wonder if Cody knew that his Force signature was positively screaming. “Good evening, Cody. I trust you slept well?”

The Force crackled maliciously. “Yes sir, best I ever had. Triage is set up over there. Looks like you could use a once-over, sir.”

“In a bit, perhaps,” he placated with a quick brush to his robes. “But you’ll have to excuse me for now. Serendipitously, the last of our men are in this very building. Pity I didn’t realize earlier- …What is it? What are you doing?” Obi-Wan craned his neck as Cody ambled his way behind. Next he knew, he was howling through clenched teeth and cringing in pain. Waxer jumped with shock and clutched the General as he careened forward.

“Apologies, sir,” Cody said as he tossed a fist-sized fragment of glass to the side. “Piece of trash there stuck on pretty tight. I’ll get a spot cleared for you in triage.”


	10. Chapter 10

Mash weaved through the sparse company of clones with a fresh cup of caf in either hand. Almost an hour had passed since Obi-Wan was admitted for triage, stagnating the mission’s momentum while granting the troops a rare occasion of respite. By now the cannons outside were dormant. A shot still disrupted the calm every now and again, but the objective had changed from before. Bolts were clearly aimed into the unoccupied plaza: the droids were threatening against escape. This kind of surveillance was sure to be a problem going forward, but for the time being, there wasn’t a clone alive who didn’t appreciate the break. Obi-Wan was considerably less satisfied than his troops. He sat straddling the back of an ornate dinner chair stationed in front of the loveseat, uncomfortably disrobed to the point where Mackenzie could access his wounds from behind. Disgruntled, he typed the mission report on Cody’s datapad to distract himself from the procedure’s pain and embarrassment.

“Free caf in the lunchroom back there, sirs,” Mash announced as he came to a stop.

Mackenzie took one look at the disposable cups and turned back to his work. “The hell’re you thinking, kid? I’ve got half a dozen stitches in the General. You want my hands to shake?”

Meanwhile, Obi-Wan accepted the nearest cup without complaint. He read over his work as he drank, hardly registering the taste until Cody’s strict tone carried over from one unfortunate assembly in the café:

“That’s a civilian resource, son. If I catch _any one_ of you flouting protocol again, I’ll be writing this up as a formal offense.”

Mash stared gravely at the remaining caf in his hand.

“You’re in it now, _son_ ,” snickered Mackenzie.

Unperturbed, Obi-Wan plucked away Mash’s offending cup, swallowed the dregs of his own, and sent them both into an endtable drawer with the Force. If the Cloud City government was going to reprimand the Republic for destruction of property, it surely wouldn’t be over a few cups of caf. Even so, he’d endured enough of his Commander’s wrath for one day.

Charter next appeared to the group with a holotransceiver facing up.

“Sir,” he greeted tersely as he knelt, “Sorry for the wait. The map of the Sector is fully compiled. Can’t say how much real estate the droids have underground, but it looks like the city’s chock full of routes in and out of the relay station area.” A translucent blue projection of Sector 6 hovered before the small group from the disc in Charter’s palm. Thousands of tunnels pervaded the station’s interior, a microcosm of miniature thoroughfares feeding in and out of major highways. “It’s nothing short of a miracle we didn’t get lost when we came in from the landing zone.”

Obi-Wan leaned in for a more comprehensive view. “Excellent work, Charter. This may be the key to our success.” A plan seemed to be stirring underneath his studious expression, when Mackenzie tugged his handiwork tight and the datapad dropped onto the floor. Obi-Wan stopped moving altogether.

“Ah- Pardon me, General. Should’ve warned you first. Hey, waterboy – grab that, would you?”

“It’s _Mash,_ sir,” Mash corrected while he recovered the fallen pad. “And it’s not my business if you’re rough on the troops, but save a little décor for the Jedi, would ya?”

Mackenzie tied off his last stitch and started scrubbing the blood from his gloves. “Let me tell you Mashy, with _this_ amount of damage I wasn’t sure he’d even feel it. Look – y’see all these tinier bits? Wood or gravel or something. Tons of ‘em. Don’t think anything’s made it subcutaneous, but we’ll see when I start picking ‘em out.” He gave his forceps a sterilizing wash.

“Please, save yourself the trouble,” intruded Obi-Wan. “There’s no need to waste anyone’s time on _splinters_. If you’ve sewn up the worst of it, then I’d like to be on my way.”

Mackenzie bristled. “Now, it’s not my place to say, sir, but that’s gotta hurt like hell. A good sheet’a plastoid or two could’ve prevented most of this. You know, I was a lot happier when you an’ the other Jedi were still running around in full plate.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.” He stood. “Come Charter, I’d like to discuss our infiltration strategy with the Commander. We should be back on the move by morning, at least.”

 

\- - -

 

Ahsoka loitered pensive with her back to the wall just outside the High Council Chamber. She looked up from her folded arms as several Masters adjourned from the room, repressing the bitter urge to plead them to stay. She never imagined that a meeting with the Council could ever feel so _short._ Plo made his exit next, and turned to accompany her at her place beside the majestic arched doors.

“…I’m sure General Skywalker will turn up tomorrow,” he consoled supportively.

Ahsoka’s eyes turned back to her arms. Plo watched as she did, attentive to the Force swirling around her while it withered from scant hope to disappointment, bottomed out in a hollow sort of feeling, and started to swell again with a passion born of betrayal. Plo waited patiently to observe her response.

“Yeah, probably.” She detached herself from the wall.

The two started to walk. They said nothing more for a considerable length of time, content to wander along in companionable silence through the spacious, clean mezzanines with no destination in mind. Plo kept their path close to the great windows, tacitly inviting Ahsoka to trade in her subdued animosity for appreciation of the afternoon sun. Coruscant was at peace. To brood was a disservice to that treasured fact. He could infer easily enough why Anakin had resigned, and even shared a portion of Ahsoka’s resentment toward his decision. But ultimately none could proceed without a clear head, so Plo dedicated the rest of the day to less onerous thoughts.

A bustling audience of initiates was gathered at the doors to the sparring courts. Day in, day out, the most thrilling combat they saw typically took place between junior Padawans; with the war in full bloom, hardly a Master had time to train his student anywhere but mid-mission. So when the fast-paced thrum of lightsaber swipes resounded through the wing, everyone knew they were in for a treat.

Ahsoka bounded off in a backflip from the place where her left-hand saber collided with Plo’s. To this point her form was weak, Plo assessed as he used the sudden distance to resume standard Form III beginning posture. Her movements were too wide, her strikes lacked defense. Practitioners of Jar’Kai garnered the benefit of a second weapon to compensate for a relatively open stance, but true masters still fought with precision. A tightly shielded warrior whose lightsabers moved as one – the ideal form of Jar’Kai was fearful indeed. Ahsoka surged. She built her speed with two agile steps before springing forward in an arc aimed to put herself just barely off-center from Plo’s immediate strike zone. _You can visualize your opponent’s range, little one, but can you adapt when you’re wrong?_ Plo swung a leg back in the same second that Ahsoka touched ground. Her right-hand saber slashed clean through his space, but she must have blinked as it did, because Plo was nowhere in view.

He felt the scuffed floor graze over his hood. In an instant Plo bent himself back at the knees, using the slight change in starting position to then leverage himself to the side, lunge away from Ahsoka’s blade, and counter with a thrust of his own while returning upright. Ahsoka sensed the twinge of it encroaching between her shoulders. She drew a sharp breath at the realization and knocked the tip askew with an upward sweep of her left. She whirled around to face him again. Plo parried the swing that followed from below – and the one after that, and the one after that. His movements were small, he was deliberate to show, yet the speed and fluidity with which he wielded his blade were undeniably effective. Ahsoka was quick to jump when Plo found an opening to counterattack. Not nearly so far as before, but her style had transitioned by now to a series of hops and opportunistic strikes that concentrated within in a meter’s radius. Her opponent’s ability to retaliate was lethal, she carefully minded. Locking blades with him would only play to his advantage. Just a little more time, just a hint of mistake, and she could figure out a way to land a hit – so long as she kept him defensive. She could only imagine how badly she’d lose if he stepped into offense.

Gauging her response, Plo noted Ahsoka’s appreciation for the dangers of close combat. What she could not match with skill, she precluded entirely through her focus on dodging. _Good_ , thought Plo as he fought, for in a real situation, the enemy would exploit any technique they found in excess of hers. His confidence rose with the knowledge that Ahsoka would simply prevent such a technique from being used. The flaw in her approach was how she limited herself at the same time. Plo studied the pattern of her defense as they sparred. He struck a line toward her right leg – Ahsoka hopped left. He lifted his saber above middle height – she crouched in preparation to dodge. He jabbed center – she slid to the side. Anyone could draw this fight out to analyze her moves. Plo chose to demonstrate as much when, upon a prompting slash to her waist, he vaulted forward at just the moment she predictably leapt back.

The enthralled crowd gasped in unison. So captivated they were in keeping up with the pair’s lightning tempo that no one expected an offensive reaction from Plo. Ahsoka was more startled than anyone. The second of vulnerability built into her dodge was intended to coincide with her time outside enemy range. That second was now at the mercy of the capable Kel Dor towering over her. She drew her sabers up in an X – but Plo aimed a kick to her feet. Ahsoka dropped neatly onto her back with a grunt. On opening her eyes, she found herself looking down a humming blue beam.

“Good show, young Padawan,” Plo congratulated. It was almost irritating how un-tired he was.

Lightsabers disengaged, Ahsoka accepted the hand that replaced the blade before her. The initiates broke into applause. Already there were several of the group imitating their favorite parts to their friends, inarticulate mimics of lightsaber sounds accompanied by clumsy swings in the air. Ahsoka couldn’t help but smile, out-of-breath as she was.

Plo laid a hand on her shoulder. “Let us discuss your strengths and weaknesses elsewhere. Any more time here and I fear you’ll be signing autographs.”

By the time they reached the central spire’s meditation garden, Ahsoka had forgotten her anger completely. She sat content under the deep shade of an old tree with weeping, flowered branches. The placid stream nearby siphoned away the anxiety accumulated since morning. Her meal from the mess hall was almost finished, and she listened raptly as Plo explained his observations in scrutinous detail. Every flaw he illustrated seemed to be a focal part of Form III. _I guess I have to work on defense more than anything_ , Ahsoka summarized for later practice. So much of the war seemed to demand that she rip through the enemy before they had the chance to retort. Time-sensitive missions just weren’t conducive to defensive training. Barreling through things with a heavy hand was careless, she knew, but too often it felt necessary. The strategy worked for Anakin, anyway… Most of the time.

“Master Plo,” she imposed in the middle of his lecture, “Sorry – could we go over this again in combat? It’s getting late now, but if you have time tomorrow, I’d be honored if you’d help me figure this out with a lightsaber in my hand.”

“If only we could,” Plo answered sadly from the grass sitting opposite. “It has been decided that from tonight until morning the troops shall prepare to depart again for Bespin.”

Ahsoka lit up. Her excitement energized the Force surrounding them, and she set her bowl to the side; the last few bites didn’t matter anymore. “That’s fantastic! As soon as we get those droids cleared, we’ll go rescue Master Obi-Wan. Have communications been restored? Any word from the 212th?”

Plo’s constant calm gave nothing away. “Unfortunately no. Communication with all settlements near Bespin remains unattainable. Either Kenobi’s forces are still engaged, or the station has been damaged beyond their repair.” He paused then, gravity amplifying the words he spoke next. “…We must also prepare ourselves for the possibility that the infiltration has failed.”

Ahsoka understood the polite implication. Her levity subsided to a nod. “I know. But we have to get that station online.” A moment of sobriety, and a smirk stole its way through her professional bearing. “Besides, if we don’t get Obi-Wan back, it’s gonna be on _you_ to teach me more about Form three.”

“I always _did_ see General Skywalker with a more… natural inclination towards Form four,” Plo quipped in kind. The two spent the final hour of daylight in pleasant conversation, and retired from the garden in hopes of securing as much sleep as possible for tomorrow’s second assault.


	11. Chapter 11

Anakin left his civilian speeder at the Temple landing bay around eight hours Standard. He walked toward the living quarters with a sag to his step, having spent the previous night feeling dejected and alone after being informed that his wife was off-planet. Expecting a cathartic reunion, he was instead welcomed by C3PO, who was only too pleased to declare that Padmé was attending a meeting between those affected by what was deemed “the great communications outage.” According to him, she was busily preparing a fervent speech to ensure that everyone knew the blame was owed to the Separatists, and the Republic was hard at work to set things right. Anakin might have been grateful they’d missed each other again by mere minutes – he harbored a reasonable degree of doubt that his skipping the Council meeting could qualify as hard work.

The hangars reserved for military use were unexpectedly populated as he made to pass through. On closer inspection, it became apparent that at least half the clones on duty belonged to the 501st. _Weird,_ he thought, for he couldn’t recall scheduling a mission to embark any time soon. He was scanning the commotion for Rex when the distinct feeling authority wafted into his periphery. _That’s gotta be him._ He trailed the sensation, diligent with increasing concern for the unprecedented haste in his troops, until the source was revealed: Anakin sighed in frustration as he located the backside of Commander Wolffe.

“Commander,” he called out nonetheless. “Mind telling me what this is about?”

Wolffe turned sharply on hearing his title. “General Skywalker,” he addressed in return, “This is round two of the Bespin dispute. General Plo’s ordered us on as of last night. We’ll be eager to get back at those monsters for what they did to our men.”

Anakin failed to disguise his confusion. “Already?” he probed, but retracted swiftly. “I mean- I wasn’t expecting the 104th to be joining us. Glad to see you guys back on your feet.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, sir. They won’t get away with this while I’m still in charge.”

“Where _is_ Master Plo?” Anakin asked next. He improved his illusion of awareness through the change in his posture and tone. “We’ll need to coordinate formations now that I know he’s in on the mission.”

“I’ll take you right to him. Best I hear the plan, too.” And Wolffe started ahead north. Anakin floundered internally.

He raised a hand in sudden disagreement. “Uh- Wait here, Commander. I’ll report back once we reach our final decision.” _Yeah, that sounds pretty good._ “You keep watch here in the meantime. Make sure everything stays on track.” _Please buy it, Wolffe._

Wolffe bought it, all right. “Yes, sir. Keeps the men on the move. Good thinking, sir. I’ll be ready for updates as soon as they’re made.”

Anakin sent him a stern nod before heading north. Obi-Wan would be proud.

The hangar’s open terrace was glowing with morning light reflected warmly off the polished metal floors. Today’s weather was clear by design, artificially adjusted around the whole planet to facilitate the delivery of supplies and troops to the orbiting fleet. Ahsoka and Plo were similarly bathed with the rising sun outside. They were convened between a line of carriers, speaking seriously and joined by a third member who had Anakin side-stepping out of view:

_Yoda._

Of all people to see in the morning, it had to be him. Grand Master Yoda, whose fondness for Obi-Wan was all but announced, whose disapproval of Anakin was neverending. Last night’s Council meeting was apparently important enough to decide on a rescue for Yoda’s favorite student. …And Anakin was conspicuously _not there_ to contribute. Little doubt remained that _Yoda_ was the one to have ordered the 501 st to arms in their true General’s absence. Anakin anxiously waited for him to depart. He spent those awkward minutes in mock supervision, plastering a look of deliberate inspection onto his face. The troops didn’t seem to catch on. At long last, the old Master’s back was disappearing through the far hall to the west. Feeling relieved, Anakin slipped out from behind the nearby carrier to replace him at Plo and Ahsoka’s side, when the caustic feeling of _failure_ entangled his mind. A powerful cringe racked his body mid-step. The poisonous sensation seemed to dry him from the inside out, and tortured him in waves before forcing his attention west by erasing everything else. The feeling condensed to a point. It was almost as though time had stopped, save for the portentous glint in Yoda’s cold eyes piercing into him as he glanced over his shoulder from afar. And then time resumed. The real world returned. Yoda was again hobbling away, no one but Anakin left shivering for fear of his ire.

“General Skywalker,” Plo cut in with an amiable hand held up in greeting.

Anakin meant to compose himself then, but ended up choking on air. Truly the power of Yoda was immense indeed. He sputtered and coughed while Plo walked his way, followed reluctantly by a less-than-sympathetic Padawan.

“Are you feeling well?” Plo asked politely. If only all Jedi Masters could be so forgiving.

“I’m fine-” Anakin gasped as he finished his bout, “-I’m fine.”

Ahsoka snapped in response. “Well you’d better be, because both battalions are scheduled to be outta here by twelve hundred hours. We’re going back to Bespin, in case you didn’t know.”

 _“Ahsoka,”_ Plo started. But Anakin didn’t need his reproach.

“As a matter of fact I _did_ know, _young Padawan._ I think it’s time I reminded you that showing _respect_ is part of your training, too.”

Ahsoka met his gaze with equal intensity. Part of her wanted to back down, to show her maturity as a Jedi by forgoing mention of her Master’s mistakes, but stronger was her desire to find justice. “Oh, okay then,” she taunted cruelly, “I guess I’ll follow _your_ example from now on.”

Anakin felt yesterday’s guilt creeping up toward his neck. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

 _Not this again,_ Plo mourned. “Infighting will only lower our chances of victory,” he mediated carefully, and turned to bring Anakin up to speed. “As you know, Ahsoka and I met with the Council to report on our previous engagement. Given the severity of the situation, it was decided that we would retaliate once more as quickly as possible. We do not know how the Separatists have advanced overnight. Before you arrived we were discussing the possibility of direct infiltration on the enemy flagship.”

“I see,” Anakin considered, speaking only to Plo. “…What about the destroyer we lost? Between that and the 104th, I wasn’t expecting the mission to pick back up so soon. Do we have enough ships to go through with this?”

“It is true that we will be entering with fewer fighters this time, but Master Windu’s flagship destroyer has been allocated for our use.”

“Oh. Uh, great.” For once, Anakin matched Ahsoka’s reaction. Both Jedi felt the stakes rise tenfold.

“For now it is a matter of outwitting our opponent. We have each witnessed their uncanny flight pattern, and with this knowledge we must establish a response within the remaining three hours to launch.”

 _Three hours to launch_. Much too short to devise a winning strategy, and much too long leave the 212 th at the Separatists’ mercy. Who could say how many of them were left now? Anakin clearly remembered the storm of lasers he fought near Sector 6. The 212th was good – _really_ good, he would readily admit– but the fact remained that ten hours past dropoff, communications were still down. Plo said nothing of rescue. Maybe rescue was no longer needed. Three hours and a hyperspace jump, and Anakin would know for sure.

 

\- - -

 

From the vantage of the misshapen hole in the power facilities’ side, the uncensored devastation of Sector 6 was on full display. Cavernous trenches ravaged the plaza. The fountain was no more, and only remnants of the salon pod were visible as pieces of hull scattered among craters. All buildings bore profound cracks. The once-elegant walkway encircling the area was mostly torn down, and parts of the forest were still burning. Ash and dust had settled at some point during the night, allowing the delicate rays of dawn to illuminate the total disaster. Obi-Wan sat in observation from his bloodied dinner chair atop the twelfth floor’s hill of debris. _Fifth time around those cooling towers,_ he noted to himself with eyes glued to a pair of macrobinoculars, _It’s a patrol route. They’ve stopped searching over there._ He next trained his vision to the relay building’s opposite side: _Same group as before. Recon droids seem to like that area – must be a reasonable path inside. …Not very well guarded though. The entrance is probably further back._ The lift chime sounded from behind. It didn’t project terribly well over the high altitude winds funneling in from outside, but Obi-Wan knew he had a visitor coming anyway. He gathered the last few seconds of data and lowered the macrobinoculars.

“Sir,” Cody called flatly.

“Good morning, Commander,” Obi-Wan invited him in turn. He made for quite an unusual sight as the only inhabitant of the dilapidated room, poised with both royalty and ruin on his throne overlooking a crumbling kingdom.

“Came to tell you the men are in position. We’re ready to execute the plan on your orders, sir.”

“Is that so? All right then, suppose I’ll head down for the day.” He rose from his chair slowly, rolling each shoulder in the process.

Cody watched with all the scrutiny of a medical droid. “How’s your back, sir? Get any sleep?” he interrogated.

“Here and there,” Obi-Wan lied easily. His breath condensed in the frigid air as he spoke. “And you?”

“I’d say about as much.”

Obi-Wan laughed at the hint. Cody climbed halfway to meet him, and extended a hand to assist the General’s descent. On ordinary days the gesture would prompt confusion. But after an all-nighter filled with cannons, forest fire and dying men, Obi-Wan accepted the arm to steady himself and leapt the rest of the way down. He waited patiently to be rejoined at the bottom, and the two walked casually to the lift.

“How many of the men are we left with?” Obi-Wan asked, soaking up the relative warmth inside the lift.

Cody stared ahead at the doors as they closed. “Thirteen of us can still run. Sent the last of those into your squad. Four MIA. Six dead.”

Obi-Wan didn’t respond after that.

The lift reached the lobby floor. Mackenzie gave a good-luck-salute from the triage area as they stepped out. Disabled as he was, it was his duty to stay with the critically injured while others took position in the field. Obi-Wan strode past, Cody in perfect pace alongside him. Ten meters were all that separated them from the glass doors leading outside. Ten meters of momentous silence. The doors opened by will of the Force, and the cold rushed inside to meet them. They stopped at the doorway – the precipice of mission commencement. It was now time to part.

Cody drew the rifle from his back and held it pointing down. “I won’t let you down, sir.” He faced the morning air.

Obi-Wan broke a smile. “You could’ve thought of something better to tell me,” he joked, pulling the lightsaber from his belt. “ _That_ much goes without saying.”


	12. Chapter 12

The battlefield separating the 212th from the relay station was glutted with vast, yawning wells of frigid morning fog. Six clones were hiding in wait behind a wealth of displaced slabs. They each watched their General in morbid silence as he joined their formation and studied the enemy from afar: droids were surrounding the relay station up ahead. They were arranged in traditional manner, lowest ranks dispersed peripherally while the more dangerous models guarded the center. Uninteresting, but nonetheless perfectly effective. Two AATs swiveled side-to-side in patrol close to the station. B2s were assigned further back, and Obi-Wan knew from his extended reconnaissance on the twelfth floor that a pair of droidekas was poised quietly in the shadows nearest the front doors. Two tanks more surveyed the area from the broken walkway above. All this, in _addition_ to the ubiquitous J-1 proton cannon presence maintained high out of reach. Six clones and a Jedi were clearly no match, but if everything went well, they wouldn’t need to be.

The wind bellowed low. Fog stirred in the pits, and with a final, focus-distilling breath, Obi-Wan ignited his saber: the signal was hot. Six grenades arched into the sky, and three men bounded forward while three stayed behind. Obi-Wan vanished without a trace. Every droid’s attention was captured then when the plaza erupted in front of them, a raucous and violent series of plumes casting a lattice of fiery debris. The damp cold that had settled in overnight was at once dried and set ablaze. Droidekas twittered in bloodthirsty anticipation. Resisting their predatory programming, they stayed close to their posts while B1s raced into the fray for investigation. The poor droids only traveled partway before a fierce lightsaber burst out from the smoke, followed closely by an even fiercer warrior.

The field was soon littered with scrap metal. Fragments of sundered B1s fell like the delicate fodder they were, splashing igneous droplets onto their fellows as well as their assailant. Obi-Wan danced with elegant savagery between them, deflecting fire in the same motions he struck, immersed in the Force so completely that even subtle actions were foreseen. A B1 lined up its shot from the relay building’s pillars. In the back of his mind he saw the bolt fly his way, felt the shudder of recoil it sent through the droid, but also felt the honed apprehension of a clone to his rescue. _Scared._ _Earnest._ A newer recruit. _Clips._ A second future dashed simultaneously across Obi-Wan’s heightened perception, and he preconceived the moment his three forward men bolted through the smoke from behind. The droid at the pillars was demolished before it shot. No need for concern.

Iteration upon updated iteration of the battle’s impending future guided their General’s cryptic technique, but the clones were forced to battle in real time. Three against many, they maximized their use of cover by making a scene at first, then darting back to safety by sliding into the hazy pits. The grenade-powered smokescreen wouldn’t last for very long in this weather. Clips, Shredder and Max kept up this strategy on schedule, dipping in and out of the cannon craters for only seconds at a time, returning fire until Obi-Wan suddenly disengaged his weapon and started dodging lasers on power of his agility alone. _Next signal,_ the clones were quick to observe. They ran back, back into the fast-thinning smoke, abandoning the site unquestioningly. Exactly as planned, the cannons were about to become one of the 212th’s numerous adversaries.

But Obi-Wan had yet to be satisfied. He thrust the remaining few B1s away with the Force, and narrowly avoided the J-1’s colossal beam by propelling himself into the air. The heat of it was almost pleasant compared to the previous night's forest fire. _B2s are still looking rather comfortable over there,_ he noted with a sliver of umbrage looking down from above. The ground spat as he landed with a skid. _We might have to pay them a visit to remind them we’re here._ All four tanks aligned their sights on Obi-Wan’s position. Sensing their aim, he vaulted into a challenging sprint. Fresher, deeper craters were blown into existence as he ran, detonating behind him closer and closer to the relay station’s front doors. His lightsaber flashed into life.

The B2 super droids were perplexed, and it showed in their uncertain behavior. They recognized battle initiation, verified that the B1 company had advanced as was planned, and now faced an anomaly barreling their way. They looked to each other for advice. Combat simply didn’t proceed this way, any one opponent acting with flagrant autonomy. But whether the battle’s developments were expected nor not, the priority objective stood firm – no unauthorized agents were allowed near the relay station. Obi-Wan easily exceeded that boundary. The B2s raised their arms on overriding procedure. Their target had one foot on the wide steps of the relay building when a downpour of vibrant red bolts was let loose. A significant portion of the bottom steps were disintegrated a second thereafter, but no evidence of dead Jedi remained. Obi-Wan was instead discovered airborne again, grinning in some kind of perverse deadly thrill while several long sniper rifle beams bore into the enemy ranks. Each of the six clones had dashed for a sniping position as soon as the second signal was shown. In total, three of the eight B2s were incapacitated. The remaining five in proximity began to spread out, two pledging focus on Obi-Wan and the rest extrapolating the snipers’ positions.

Clips noticed that the droids were upset. It was a pain to lug a weighty sniper rifle around at his side, especially after just a few shots, but his orders were clear: _Any opposition, I want you to run._ He yanked the gun from its ledge. With only six troopers active, opposition was the name of the game. Run here, attract some shots. Run there, attract even _more_ shots. It was a miracle that any of them found the time to fire back at all. Clips was hastily folding the rifle’s stand, when the blustering force of a tank’s turret fire shoved him into the ground. The jumble of plaza tile serving as his hideout was definitively no more. His ears and muscles were singing somewhere between urgency and pain, and he pulled his head up to find he was completely exposed. The battlefield was wider than it looked from behind a safe patch of cover. Obscuration from the initial assault had been carried off by the breeze, leaving nothing between Clips and the droids who had spotted him. His limbs felt like duracrete. He pried himself mercilessly away from the ground, mere centimeters of progress for all his determination, but his doom was solidified with each passing moment. _I can’t die here_ , he vowed desperately, _Not like this!_ After all, it wasn’t _he_ who was surrounded. Paces away at the relay station’s doorstep, Obi-Wan had finally surpassed the droidekas’ threshold of recognition. They snapped into full legs and armaments with a frighteningly fast _pop_ , activated their ghostly shields, and trained dual barrels onto a single Jedi struggling to contain two B2s, four tanks and Force-knows how many proton cannons. Dying now would impose that much greater a burden on him.

Clips opted to crawl in lieu of the strength to stand. He clawed at the gravel in front of him, one handful after the other, staving away the idea that his death was imminent – promising himself that the Republic would live on. He heard nothing but the collective hum of crossfire for what seemed an eternity, until his senses trained onto the sound of a turret beginning to charge. _The sound of the end. It’s been a great honor, sir._ The turret sucked in the air around the tank. It shot. Clips braced himself for his rapid demise. Instead, the answering explosion was much further off. He picked his head off the uneven ground. Did the droids think him dead? His stupor was cut short by the hand yanking him back on his feet. Those yellow markings were unfamiliar, he absently thought at the helmet that paired with the hand. Nonetheless, he found himself bumbling along on weak legs, more than half-dragged, toward an intact barrier in the dark shade underneath the plaza’s overhead walkway.

“Pull yourself together, shiny,” the disgruntled clone yelled, “If one of us dies, that’s a _sixth_ of all the support that General Kenobi gets. Now make yourself useful and grab a-” Two heavy cannon beams met the plaza just before them and showered the hideout in dirt. Both men hunkered down on instinct. _“…Grab another rifle!”_ he finished angrily. Clips was spared not a whiff more of his time. The clone returned to his post, a cleverly balanced rifle whose barrel and sights took advantage of a hole in their den. A second rifle leaned dormant as indicated. One memorized sequence of switches and dials later, and Clips mimicked his brother’s firing posture.

Through the sights of either gun, it was evident that the fight had begun to migrate toward the relay building’s eastern face.

“Ah,” Clips remarked with a sigh, “Looks like they found B group. Won’t be pullin’ one over on the clankers from _that_ side anymore.”

“Less talking, more shooting,” was his savior’s sordid response.

Compared to the plaza’s vacant space, the battle was incredibly confined once the droids discovered the four-man infiltration team closing in on the building’s east side. They made it quite far, too, shielded under the station's stone awning, moving as a group to the set of doors located in back. The key maneuver was even achieved: the highest guards were provoked. Distracted away from the east. It was an unruly set of recon droids who ultimately blew the second team’s cover, wailing alarms at frequencies out of most species’ hearing range. The fight was thus waged in a chaotic swarm. Droids filed east as the clones attempted to flee. Obi-Wan, ever misleading, strove to extend this transition for as long as possible. He’d managed to cut down all but one B2 so far, though more were emerging with packs of B1s from different parts of the city. _Splendid,_ he thought in mid-dodge, _It seems we've persuaded them well enough._ Despite his optimism, the droidekas limited his ability to respond. He’d already committed to offending them, however, and while they remained on his tail, he couldn’t hope to divert his attention anywhere else. Just as it seemed, a squad of clones and a Jedi were sorely outmatched. The battle was over before it began. Fortunately, all was according to plan. By any droid's estimate, the Republic had attempted a stealthy infiltration, and failed.

Three companies of tidily arranged droids broke onto the scene from three separate alleyways. They marched forward, congregated at what might have been the plaza’s edge, and slowed to a disorganized pause. The way forward had been made into a canyon. They argued amongst themselves for a time, obviously taken aback by the obstacle that was their own forces’ horrendous disfigurement of terrain. B1s were notoriously unstable - the one droid who wobbled bravely into the field slipped into a trench on its very first step. It was the most amusing thing that the 212th had seen on the planet to date.

With a hail of derogatory remarks, grenades were tossed in like party favors. The haggard clones in hiding were not so hospitable as to let their stroke of luck go ignored, and they picked away at the stranded droid companies with all the fervor this shining moment would allow. _I’ll have to tell Ahsoka about this,_ Obi-Wan noted to himself. He caught glimpses of the droids’ panic as he pivoted around to the backside of the final B2. He wagered the B2’s two halves would make decent anti-droideka projectiles. With a stroke of his lightsaber and a swing of both arms, he found that they did.

Obi-Wan twirled his weapon buoyantly. He considered that somewhere around now would be a good time to signal retreat, but with the way things were going, he almost wondered if retreat was still necessary. Separatist heavy artillery was having trouble finding somewhere to aim while their opponents were either unseen or too close to the relay station to shoot. Droid reinforcements were pleasantly incompetent, and the clone presence in the area felt strikingly similar to _ten._ Obi-Wan even considered going ahead to clean out the station by force. He’d never have imagined such awful frontal assaults would actually become successful – it was more than enough that the droids believed they were serious in the first place. Cody’s reaction was bound to be entertaining when he came upon the rest of their troops lounging bored in the control room. _Now that’s a worthy idea,_ Obi-Wan schemed, _Or perhaps I’ll give him a call once we have communications restored to ask how the real infiltration is faring._

Then, amidst the dwindling crossfire, a gargantuan shadow descended over the plaza in full. It devoured each and every man in the 212th, swelling and swelling in gluttony until the ship that bore it hovered just where it desired. Obi-Wan peered up. Obi-Wan’s troops peered up too, and all of them witnessed the underbelly of a unique Separatist cruiser that escaped their attention in the heat of the battle. Any joy that Obi-Wan attained in the last minute was gone. He knew this day was about to be ruined by the familiar, rotten presence he sensed from above. Nevertheless, he disengaged his saber, folded his hands at the base of his back, and walked down the broken steps to welcome his least favorite person with a well-practiced smile.

He’d just reached the bottom when the terrible craft opened its flanks. Six MagnaGuards dropped down and landed in menacing clouds of ash, but none competed with the storm created by Grievous himself. Obi-Wan tried his best to look less than annoyed at the mess.


	13. Chapter 13

“General!” Obi-Wan greeted merrily. He stopped before the towering cyborg, brushing the dirt from his robes with a cordial smile and a thumb on the trigger of the weapon hidden behind his back. “So kind of you to stop by. You’ll have to pardon the clutter – we weren’t exactly expecting company.”

Grievous rose to full height. He took two long steps forward, talons leaving deep stab wounds in the ground, until Obi-Wan’s space was thoroughly invaded. The Jedi didn’t budge.

“That’s too bad!” Grievous rasped loud over the battle, over top of his enemy, “For this is the last time that you and I will meet, _Kenobi_.” He uttered the name with slow and methodical hatred. As he spoke, he collected two of four stolen lightsabers from his sides. A pair of MagnaGuards humbly removed the cape from his back as he did. “My lord has given me the opportunity to carry out your execution. You will die on this planet, knowing your little _sneak attack_ has _failed.”_

The imperceptible fakeness in Obi-Wan’s smile turned real in that moment. If even Grievous hadn’t caught on to their plan, then maybe Cody stood a chance yet. All Obi-Wan had to do was keep feeding him time. “I’m surprised about that, now that you mention. I thought the ruckus we caused over here was _certain_ to catch the droids’ attention. Now, if I’m to die as you say, you wouldn’t mind perhaps explaining how we were so expertly foiled, would you? I’d be _fascinated_ to know-”

 _“Enough talking!”_ Grievous shouted in anger. So much for verbal diversion. It lasted about as long as Obi-Wan expected, though – Grievous never had the patience to fall for that brand of trickery. He swept an arm over Obi-Wan’s head to address his personal guard. “Fan out to eliminate the rest of the clones. _I_ will kill the Jedi _.”_ Green and blue beams scorched the air from the hilts in his hands.

Obi-Wan dropped low to avoid the scissor-like slashes that followed the end of his declaration. But instead of his lightsaber, he activated the fuse of the frag grenade concealed within his pouch. In the second that Grievous’ sabers crossed over themselves, Obi-Wan flew between them. Curled into an aerodynamic ball, he swept mere centimeters away from Grievous’ face on the ascent, rocketing high into the air behind him. Only at the apex did he launch the ticking grenade. He then straightened his legs, gripped the lightsaber in both hands, and descended squarely upon an unsuspecting MagnaGuard’s shoulders with Force-assisted weight. The droid crumpled and sent sparks out its back. While Obi-Wan teetered, the bomb detonated in the sky. Every trooper in the area received the last signal: their long-awaited retreat.

Grievous turned just in time to watch one of his prized battledroids be pierced through the top of its head. Just as quickly, Obi-Wan withdrew his saber and sliced the MagnaGuard in half for good measure as he flipped to the ground. “I _do_ so enjoy it when you make things easy for me,” he challenged as he stood. The droid fell in two pieces behind him. “Here I was thinking you’d brought these along to even the odds! Honestly, _six_ MagnaGuards– excuse me, now five –to take down the remnants of my squad? I must say, dear Grievous, I’m flattered. If you wanted me to yourself, you needed only to ask.”

His distinctive Form III starting posture was accompanied by a suggestive wink. Grievous responded well to these taunts, all things considered, for he let loose a mechanical roar and ordered the two MagnaGuards nearest Obi-Wan to restrict his position. Obi-Wan studied their formation from the corner of his eye. _Hm. Not so many as I’d have preferred, but that’s half the droids Grievous originally sent. They’ll have to make do for now._ The crackling sound of electrostaves was drawing close from behind while Grievous stalked forward. The three were intending to confine their target in a triangle, and each of them was equipped with two weapons, at least. The Force flushed with adrenaline. The Jedi code forbade twisted pleasures, but as the risk to himself dawned on unbeatable, the more eager Obi-Wan was to beat it.

An electrostaff jabbed toward his right lung. Obi-Wan slid back – another staff to his neck. Each successive strike was not only aimed to kill, but to set up the next blow in line. He contorted every which way in less than a moment’s notice, but where he moved to counter one blow with his blade, another was flying his way. The droids’ maneuvers were perfectly in sync. MagnaGuards were more than just a cut above the rest, they housed over a hundred years’ worth of combat experience in every memory chip installed. In the battle droid hierarchy, they justified their ungodly price tags with programming that enabled them to learn an opponent’s fighting style within a single attack. MagnaGuards were nigh precognitive. Obi-Wan relished the chance to prove that automated precognition was nothing compared to the real thing. He felt the wisp of lethal current pass through his robes and dust over his skin with each successful dodge. That scratchy, malignant sensation plaguing his mind told him that Grievous was but a step away from the fight. He stomped forth with tempered bloodlust, as though to herald the true battle’s beginning – as though his dexterous MagnaGuards were only the opening act.

Having given the two droids enough time to learn, Obi-Wan elected to stop playing, as well. His lightsaber drove into the incoming end of the left MagnaGuard’s staff, knocking the weapon up and out of the fray. The MagnaGuards processed then that their target had been hiding his strength. Both assumed him to follow up on the droid forced defensive, but Obi-Wan feinted forward, prompting their response, and ducked down to evade the stab aimed to impale him from behind. Severing the offensive droid’s arm was a simple matter from there. Obi-Wan cleaved the arm in a shower of molten rain. He grabbed the staff as it fell toward him, rolled back to evade the other droid's sweep, and sprung from the ground with a spin. The momentum guided his newly acquired weapon straight into the disarmed droid’s chest. In a blinding flash, vicious purple bolts surged between them. Unfortunately, the electrostaff was sacrificed when Obi-Wan hopped away from a brutal, two-saber slash from Grievous that decimated the remains of his defeated MagnaGuard. Enraged, Grievous lunged upon him with a barrage of indomitable blows. Tight, fluid deflection was all that saved Obi-Wan from Grievous’ almost eight hits per second, but doing so trapped him in a cage made of hot beams that screamed and sputtered on every point of contact. He had no room to break free. In defending himself from the onslaught of machine-powered double attacks, Obi-Wan’s attention was sapped from the surviving MagnaGuard – the MagnaGuard who now knew of its target’s deceptive tactics. It crept behind him, armored feet crunching over its sibling’s unfeeling corpse, and steered a fatal dose of current toward Obi-Wan’s spine as soon as he stepped back.

Meanwhile, ten clones raced unguarded across ravaged terrain.

“Keep up or take cover, rookie! Pick one already!” railed Clips’ unfriendly companion. They ran approximately together, though the hurdles of rock and other displaced fragments of city slowed Clips more than he wished. He’d blame it on the turret’s aftershock, if asked, but even he knew that the real difference came down to experience. The elder clone leading their way had plenty of that. He kept their route shady and indirect, laden with grueling debris that provided excellent cover, in exchange for difficulty of navigation. Somehow, he didn’t seem phased. What _did_ phase him was the fact that his junior kept falling behind, though he continued to backtrack for him every time.

“I have a _name_ , you know,” Clips contended in the brief moment his brother was within hearing range, “It’s _Clips!_ And I’m no kriffin’ shiny!” He pulled himself the rest of the way out from under a mutilated fence.

“Oh yeah? Well quit actin’ like one!” He smacked Clips' helmet once the two were back on the run. The next stretch would put them in the safe maze of urban alleyways, starting with the one right behind the power facilities building.

“Hey!” Clips yelled ahead, “I didn’t catch your name!”

The unmannerly clone looked back. “What, you gonna report me for infighting like the little greenie you are?!”

“Just thought I’d get to know the bastard who saved my skin!”

The rising sun illuminated the clones as they darted through a passage of light. The passage opened out to a fractured walkway, and from the other end a J-1 cannon beam was heard rending the city once more. A great, resounding _smash_ signified that the glass windows lining the buildings’ fronts were now separated from their frames. Both men stumbled from the impact’s proximity. Cloaked in shadow, they could afford to wait for the shaking to stop. Clips braced himself against the building and peeked back into the light where precipitating shards of glass were twinkling onto the bright walkway. The sight was magical as it was daunting. A second sight shoved the thought out of mind – at first just a hand, an uncertain grip on the building’s torn edge, then a wavering suit of plastoid hauling an unmoving brother in tow. Clips sprang to their aid. He rushed into the light, barely three steps in when an adamant hand nearly ripped the bones from his arm. He faltered from the force of it, but was not allowed to fall before being succinctly captured and dragged back into the shade.

“Let _go!_ Are you _blind_ there are men out there!”

The alley was then filled with the rapid snapping of high-power electricity against plate. Louder were the final, pained wails of the clone on the other end. Clips was released with no further struggle. He followed his brother with lava boiling in his veins.

The “sneak attack” group, or so they were named with a heavy emphasis on their status as a secondary decoy, traveled as one. Each of the four men kept a 180 degree lookout as they ran to the manhole scouted en route.

“Sir,” reported Mash from the rear, “Got a visual on one’a those MagnaGuards. It’s heading in our direction, sir.”

“Copy,” Twist acknowledged. He kept his eyes scanning forward, rifle to the ground, as he ran. “Has it traced our position?”

“No, sir. It’s searching for us now. Probably saw one of us clear off this way when the General gave the signal.”

“Good work. We’ll stay the course for now. Get back to the rear and update me if it looks like it’s spotted us.”

“Sir!” Tongs alerted from the side further back. A frenzied hand signal had the squad sprinting back to his position. They crouched alongside him behind a wide, pearlescent pillar holding up the divided walkway.

“This had better be important, private,” warned Twist, “We’re losing valuable time against that droid.”

Tongs held one finger against the lower portion of his helmet covering his mouth. That, and a flick of the head left, and the other three men leaned out just far enough to locate the probe droid on patrol.

“Ah, _those_ buggers again,” Mossy whined.

“Sir,” Mash addressed quietly, “Do we shoot? We’ll tip off the MagnaGuard, but we can’t have the thing screaming at us _this_ time around.”

Twist glanced about, scouring the environment for creative solutions. “No. Wait. Don’t shoot.” He took a hand from his gun to hold it facing down in the center of the group: habitual hand signals to accompany his words. _Come on, come on…_ he prayed as he searched, and with a smirk growing beneath his helmet, he found salvation in the scaffolding above. “All right, boys, it’s time we show these rust buckets a thing or two about stealth.”

The MagnaGuard recognized the sound of a DC-15S blaster rifle from less than a quarter of a klick’s distance. It ran to the source with exceptional speed, only to find the husk of a decommissioned probe droid rolling on the ground, freshly shot. The MagnaGuard stood erect. Its red eyes flashed, indicating bioscanners powering on. _Not so fast, tin man._ Twist appeared from behind the pillar with the vicious droid in his rifle’s sights. The MagnaGuard twitched. It swooped at its prey faster than Twist could even think to shoot. But Twist wasn’t planning to stay long – he tore off in the other direction as soon as he saw those red eyes power back down. Only a second into the chase, and a shot scored the tile next to the MagnaGuard’s ankle. It halted the hunt immediately. It extrapolated the enemy’s position, turned around, and looked up into the barrels of three troopers looking back. A flurry of carefully-aimed plasma was released from the scaffolds supporting the elevated walkway. The MagnaGuard dodged easily, but the pattern of shots ensured that the provoked machine encroached upon its new targets slowly – slow enough so that when Twist’s EMP grenade rolled silently from behind, the MagnaGuard was left unaware. It buckled to the ground. Twist busied himself shushing the enthusiastic team as they descended by cable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was THIS CLOSE to writing Grievous' voice in all caps. But then I couldn't take him seriously.


	14. Chapter 14

Three wary ribbons of light darted to and fro through the murky black bowels of Sector 6. Coated wires of every color lined the narrow, circular walls, accompanied by thick pipes that heated the tunnels well beyond a degree suitable to humans. A singular strip of metal, not more than half a meter wide and a few centimeters thick, served as the only platform to be walked upon. Clearly these spaces were built for specialized maintenance droids – not at all for an armored squad of clones.

“Hope things are all right upstairs,” commented Waxer through the intense darkness and heat. His joints ached from the prolonged crouching position that the cramped passage enforced. At this point he was seriously debating which party was given the more pleasant task.

Cody kept pace at the front of the group, seemingly unperturbed by the hostile conditions. “That’s none of your concern,” he scolded plainly without looking back, “Let General Kenobi handle things up top. It’s _our_ job to make sure the fight ends up being worth it out there.”

“Yes, sir,” Waxer returned with vehemence. _Never could get a friendly conversation going around the Commander…_

“Sir,” interrupted Charter from the back. The holomap in his hand further illuminated the passage, sending ambient rays of blue from behind the other two clones. “Sir, d’you hear that? Almost sounds like…”

The group’s trio of headlights converged upon a T-shaped intersection in the tunnels up ahead. As they approached, Cody angled his light down to reveal a shimmering stream of some-or-other liquid flowing rapidly through the thoroughfare underneath. He slowed to an investigatory stop, and each man paused behind him. Waxer sent his puzzlement at the unexpected scene through a deliberate glance back to Charter. Meanwhile, Cody pulled the holotransceiver from his pouch for the tenth time this mission. The Sector map expanded in his palm; the tunnel was enveloped then in an even brighter ethereal blue that amplified with every reflective surface nearby. Judging by their position, as estimated by the distance covered since descending, it appeared that the peculiar stream ran from the heart of Sector 6. Cody deflated with a frown. He may not have been conscious for his salon pod’s wild entrance, but he vividly recalled the opposed journey out from the demolished fountain. And last time he set eyes on the plaza, that fountain was utterly _gone._ The water supplying it had to go _somewhere_ , of course, and Cody held back a sigh at the realization that ‘ _somewhere’_ ended up being _inside the station_. Creeping into the thoroughfare, he readjusted the scope of his headlight. The way ahead was littered with fallen supports that spewed water from every available crevice.

“Obstruction en route,” he reported coolly, “Take a left, men.”

…The fifth left so far.

Their holomap was indispensable, to be sure, but without the comm relay to update, it showed a stagnant model of the Sector from a time well before the Separatist invasion. Little surprises such as these were unavoidable as they were frequent. In addition, it was impossible for the squad to track their position. Every turn, every step had to be counted manually so as not to lose their position within the underground maze.

Waxer turned as ordered once Cody took the lead. “Ah- sir,” he began with trepidation, watching the river race past them underneath, “You don’t think it’s possible the whole island might, you know… Fall?” The sight of water running freely over sparsely dressed circuitry was less than reassuring. “I mean, it’s just repulsors keeping this place afloat, right? ‘Least the stations back home have a leg or two.”

“Can it, Waxer,” Cody snapped. “Need I remind you a _second_ time? We’re soldiers, not engineers. The faster we get that comm station online, the faster this place gets cleaned up. Our orders are top priority right now.”

Waxer wasn’t given the chance to retort before Charter cut in once again. “Right turn at twenty-five meters, sir,” he directed. “We’ll be back on course in about four minutes.” Strictly business. He obviously had more experience working directly under their Commander.

“Copy. Turning right on your mark.”

Musty silence filled and elongated the time it took for their designated turn to be reached. Cody tested the corner as they arrived, the same level of militant caution as always, despite the conclusive lack of droids since their underground mission began. Waxer waited for his ritual to end. He studied his blaster aimlessly, nursing his unspoken concern over the effects of the surrounding humidity and heat on the gas cartridge inside. And then Cody disappeared. Waxer hardly needed to look up to discern the moment he did, given the clockwork precision with which each corner was checked: three and a half seconds, every single time. Only, this time Cody wasn’t nearly so far along on the other side. Waxer turned the corner and halted with a jolt, nearly ploughing into the back of Cody’s knees before realizing he no longer needed to crouch. Craning to the side, he saw that the passageway before them was sloped to enable a standing height – if only marginally.

A thick metal door denied their progress at the end of the hall. Cody advanced to examine it, and something in his posture then was uncannily reminiscent of the posture he took with undisciplined recruits. Waxer couldn’t speak for the door, but in its situation, he’d have promptly stepped aside and apologized. The uncooperative door resembled that of a boiler room’s. Its windowless surface was dotted with heavy rivets, plain and industrial save for the enormous valve in the center that no doubt held the ominous structure in place. Cody held up a hand sign – Charter and Waxer retreated obediently behind either corner flanking the hall.

The first thing they heard was the clicking of Cody’s rifle onto his back. The terrible _screech_ that followed told them his first attempt on the valve was less than successful. Charter peeked into the hall, then returned to his holomap on the gamble that however long this delay took, it would be long enough to drum up yet _another_ alternative route. Waxer observed him rotate and expand the holographic model. He wondered if there would be any of their unit left by the time they were through. Diversions impeded their assignment one after another. Every setback only lengthened the suffering endured by the rest of the 212 th. The echoing river below was piqued by the insulated sounds of cannonfire above. But in a morbid sort of way, the cannons were reassuring: if they were firing, then there was somebody left to fire upon.

The wrenching noises across the hall were punctuated with a low, metallic exchanging of gears. Charter and Waxer jumped to attention again, and Cody huffed at his hard-won victory.

“Lightsaber would’ve taken care’a this a lot faster, but we’ll just have to make up for lost time,” he said, mostly to himself while collecting the gun from his back.

As per protocol, he creaked the door open a hair, and peered in with his back to the other side. This amount of caution wasn’t particularly expedient, he knew, but in this case, out of the tens of hundreds that preceded it, Cody’s life was spared from the fizzling blue beam that scored his helmet as it flew into the hall. The squad snapped to defensive formation without flaw nor command. Barrels lurking around the walls, Charter and Waxer were poised to follow their leader in from the sides. Cody nodded back. He watched the door predatorily, rifle pointing up, and in one motion plunged into the unknown.

The door was cast wide open. The other two troopers sprinted forth. They stomped onto what seemed to be a wire-lattice balcony and scanned the shadowy space at the ready to shoot. They located their commander with his headlight pointing down… Onto a terrified crowd of civilian refugees. Only a few of them were armed. Even fewer held their blasters with confidence. Cody lowered his sights with a wearied sigh.

“Don’t shoot,” he ordered lethargically, left hand up in surrender, before a near-match of his voice reverberated through the dark, gymnasium-like room from the back.

 _“Don’t shoot!”_ the harried voice cried again. Three lights wandered over the crowd, searching for the source, and finally illuminated a single, grimy clone struggling to push his way to the stairs.

“The hell…?” Charter puzzled quietly.

Cody was just as surprised, though his response quickly vanished in a sheath of glaring disapproval. “You had better have a _damn_ good reason for being down here right now, son,” he scorned as he stepped down to meet him. The civilians smartly compressed to provide him with room.

Switch failed to salute, Cody noted initially. He mentally annotated the minor offense. Switch was instead preoccupied holding back an equal mix of laughter and pain – the coincidence of meeting _anyone_ down here was really too bizarre. But a _full room_ , plus the infiltration squad? The Force was a mysterious thing. “Well that seals it: it really is you, Commander.”

Cody’s fingers twitched in his fist. “Listen _kid,_ if you know what’s good for you-”

“Right, right- sorry, sir,” Switch retracted with both arms up, “Forgive me. General gave the signal to retreat.”

 _Karking hell._ “So you’re telling me _this_ is where you bloody retreated to?!”

“Ah, no! I mean,” he floundered, “Sir, it’s Grievous. He’s touched down up top with those bodyguard droids. Offbeat an’ I barely made it down here alive.”

At that, Cody felt every muscle in his body seize.

 _“What?”_ called Waxer a few steps higher up, “Did you say _Grievous_ is here?!”

 _And the General’s ordered off his support,_ Cody finished internally. They could have expected this. They _should_ have expected this. Granted, it was impossible to know who their opponents were above planet, but they’d entered the atmosphere knowing full well that Sector 6 was Separatist territory in every way but name. Enemy reinforcements really were that easy to install. And who better to install against General Kenobi? _Dammit._ Eight clones and a Jedi. Half of them sleep-deprived. All of them wounded. There was a reason some men took to calling them ‘Team Suicide,’ but with Grievous added in, the name was terrifyingly accurate. _…Dammit!_ _He was right. We should’ve kept fighting last night._ _It was me who told him not to. Now he’s the one paying for it._

Charter appealed to Cody’s tense back. “Sir, there’s no time to lose.”

Involuntarily, the forehead of Cody’s helmet fell into his hand. “…Charter’s right. Switch, you’re coming with us. If either you or Offbeat can still fire a blaster, we’ll need all the help we can get.”

Switch was both proud and afraid that Cody could identify him correctly. “Yes, sir,” he readily agreed, “I’ll try not to slow us down, but Offbeat’s out like a light. Lugged the bastard in here myself. He’s over there-” a vague gesture toward a dark and crowded corner, “-if you wanna go check.”

“No time.” Cody glanced back. “Charter, we need the fastest route to that relay station, _asap.”_

“On it, sir. Straight through this room and an exit at the right.”


	15. Chapter 15

Fine chips of debris puffed into clouds where Obi-Wan stumbled back. Three glancing blows from an electrostaff had his nerves responding either late or too early, but never on time. The shallow lightsaber cuts in his arms were veritable proof. He shifted footing to compensate for his declining condition – half a second spent to hastily readjust, and just enough of a delay for Grievous’ leg to spring forth and gore him into the ground. His head hit the dirt with a sickening _crack._ His chestplate fractured similarly, crunching plastoid under the cyborg’s weight.

The Force burst into a strobe of distorted visions. Like a downpour of shattered mirrors, a dozen futures collapsed in his mind. The air was suddenly warmer then, balmy and slow like the universe was moving on without him. Reality oscillated in and out of the present. Obi-Wan grappled with the talons boring into his chest, shaking with effort and neural noncompliance. Familiar laughter mocked his fruitless struggle from above. A third talon stabbed into his gut, though he had neither the hands free to stop it, nor the strength left to spare. Finally compelling himself to focus in spite of the pain, he found himself staring down a glowing green beam lined up in front of his face. His eyes widened, reflecting the violent color. In desperation he bucked left, then right, grinding his teeth as the talons sank deeper into his flesh, but no amount of squirming would release him. _Mannerless brute_ , he cursed under his breath, and curled in to strike a well-aimed kick to Grievous’ wrist just as the blade would have sheared through his face. The motion was trailed by the welcomed sound of a lightsaber clattering behind his head – though the third talon devoured his gut all the while. _A necessary sacrifice,_ Obi-Wan ruled. Grievous loosed an outraged roar overtop of his prey. Not wasting a second, Obi-Wan surrendered his right hand’s grip to expel him into the air.

He lifted his arm – vision pulsing in time with his heart –  and the limb _fragmented_ before him. Ripples of color flourished rabidly and reassembled in flickering images of differing times and places.

Sunny Tatooine?

Stormy Coruscant.

Reaching for crystals on Ilum?

Grabbing Anakin’s cybernetic hand on Mustafar.

The arm fell from his view.

Years recycled in an instant. The MagnaGuard’s staff was embedded into to the side of his neck. Flash upon rapidfire flash mutilated his heightened perception, lethal voltage overloading his senses until a distant quake brought this torture to a close. Time settled to a point that wavered within a few days, then hours, then minutes and seconds. The weight hovering over his body was gone. …Or was it? Obi-Wan flipped to his feet. His eyes blurred, his lungs heaved, and he remained only partly aware of the fact he was standing. Powdered debris swirled over a decimated metropolis. He blinked. The setting was new. At least, the cavernous vent in the plaza was new.

Loose ground poured into the jagged ravine spanning the plaza’s complete diameter. Like a sarlaac’s den, the canyon ate away at its surroundings, inhaling endless volumes of dirt, broken windows and sundered droids. In a way, the city was eating itself. Obi-Wan struggled to process the unfolding catastrophe. _This certainly wasn’t the main problem before, was it?_ he pondered. Not that the concept of “before” was yet fully coherent, but a distinct intuition pestered his judgement that something more pressing was threatening the mission. _Mission. Yes. That’s right, Salucemi._ The sound of compressing gas cylinders jogged his jittering memory – a cyborg bounded his way over sliding debris. _Oh dear, that must be Grievous. What am I doing on Salucemi, again?_ He clutched at his belt – no lightsaber appeared to his touch. A great bloom of red was otherwise permeating the space over his robes. _Oh. Oh my. That’s going to complicate things. Well, Cody probably has it-_ The spindly silhouette of Grievous launched into the air and burned furiously in front of the sun. - _And where in blazes is Cody?!_

Kilometers underground, the true infiltration team scampered with all the urgency the tight passages would afford.

“Ladder up in ten meters,” Charter called out.

No one gave the time to respond. They simply reached the point of action and proceeded, spurred to peak performance by the threat of reinforcements outside. Cody’s clockwork three-point-five second security check had diminished to two. Navigation was the only voice left in the tunnels. Switch, being the last in the line, was still ascending the ladder into a sweltering steam tunnel when a tremulous vibration shocked the station in full. Boiling droplets sputtered from the pipelines all around. The thin platform shifted under the squad’s feet, sending each man tumbling into the burning-hot walls. Melted bits of white and yellow plastoid strung from their armor on return to centered position. Waxer and Charter slowed a few paces then, reestablishing balance and prompting investigation, but Cody braced himself with a hand to the ground and kept moving. Sector 6 could fall into pieces, for all he cared at this moment. That comm _would_ be put back online, and then he’d slaughter every last droid standing between him and the battle outside. Those orders were the only thing separating him from defending his brothers and General – if at all they remained.

The clones behind him received the message with ease: stopping was _not_ part of the plan. Waxer doubled his speed to catch up while Charter heaved Switch onto the platform. In the seconds they squandered, Cody and Waxer had turned the next corner. The pair raced to follow suit, communication foregone, and rounded the same corner to become momentarily blinded by a ray of harsh daylight pouring in from the cloudless sky above. Kilometers of severed machinery glistened in two equal columns shooting high into the crisp open air. Long cables were stretched taut between the two ragged halves, as though straining to contain the whole station from imminent collapse. A luminous channel divided the station and gave birth to waterfalls of sand that culminated in a growing pit of rubble at the base – mere footsteps away from where Cody and Waxer stood gaping.

“…Well I’ll be damned,” Switch interjected at last, “The place is going down.”

A disturbingly recognizable shine stole Cody’s attention away from the horrific breach. He scanned the developing mounds of debris as they coated the lower level innards, stooping low to examine more carefully, and to his dismay, homed in upon an unmistakable shape. He knelt apprehensively at the edge of the broken walkway. Reaching into the sunlight, he dusted away the dirt and reclaimed the gleaming hilt of Obi-Wan’s lost lightsaber.

Waxer grew numb at the sight. To him and others, the object symbolized a Jedi’s death. He stalled there, immobile and shocked, trapped between the loss of their General and the impending doom of Sector 6. Charter bowed his head in respect. Switch, conversely, glanced about in a panic: was the mission still on without General Kenobi? Something about having a Jedi around made it somehow okay that the station was on its way out. After all, nothing _too_ bad could happen so long as _he_ was in place. It was as though Obi-Wan played the role of a failsafe in Switch’s mind, impenetrable and inviolable, capable of enacting miracles that the common sentient could only dream to accomplish. Yet he was mortal, too. Switch failed to comprehend. The atmosphere crested on melancholy, until Cody broke the mood:

“Stars, _not again,”_ he moaned.

The three further back shared the same jolt of perplexity. Surely Cody hadn’t served under another Jedi in the past? Waxer turned for advice, but Charter and Switch were just as confused.

“Move it,” Cody continued, a darker shade of irritation painting his already-bothered tone.

The clones behind him straightened on instinct. Confusion aside, they still remembered how to obey. But as they set out to continue their mission, a spiraling mass of metal crashed into the sand. The failing station groaned at the blustering impact, ten times as loud as the echo which permeated the surface. The clones held their arms up in front to shield against the accompanying tidal wave of earth. Then, amidst the haze and disorder, four long, arachnid limbs emerged wielding murderous green and blue blades.

 _“MOVE!”_ Cody reiterated with far greater intensity.

The squad scattered, frantic, but Grievous was soon upon them all. His impossible range swept Charter and Switch into the alcove from whence they arrived. Cody leapt back and rolled, distancing himself from the reach he anticipated. The sudden attack left Waxer alone, backed into the wall, aiming a last-ditch shot under Grievous’ monstrous shadow. The bolts fired from his comrades on either side were deflected inconsequentially by Grievous’ auxiliary arms. A third arm was easily reserved, raising up high to commence Waxer’s execution. He fired his shot, which was batted aside as trifling as a bug in a cockpit. _Ah, well. Can’t expect much more than that._ His duty was complete. He made his last throw. Against a killer of Jedi, what more could be done? Waxer accepted his fate, but in those strange final moments, he couldn’t help but notice that the fourth arm was missing its blade.

As the fatal slash swung and Waxer held tight, the final blade rose on the scene. The heavy dust in the air exploded outward from a single point in the mound, rushing away from the divine path created by Obi-Wan’s outstretched palm. In his other hand, a stolen green saber glowed vengefully. Grievous froze in place.

 _“Shoot. Now.”_ Obi-Wan commanded without remorse. The tension in his brow told of tremendous concentration, affirmed by the hovering grains of sand that drifted inert in an unnatural way about his space.

The clones fired as ordered, though all were delayed but Cody from the awe of their General’s unforeseen appearance. At that very moment, Grievous smashed his invisible binds with the hammer of his will. Two bolts ricocheted off his blue beam and sputtered into the frayed walls. One, however, succeeded in striking his shoulder, and the pauldron concealing it flew far into a distant hall. He watched the ornament go. Turning slowly to Obi-Wan, a throaty growl emanated from his chassis. _How dare you,_ the cyborg seemed to say, but before he could overpower him again, Obi-Wan was barreling into his chest, knee-first and saber arching down.

Waxer dove to the side. In a thundering clash, the back wall was destroyed. The sandstorm resumed. Grievous flailed under Obi-Wan’s unwavering resolve. A green beam hacked ferally through the clavicle rods attaching his left arms, while both right arms were stunted and bent with the Force. Robotic howls filled the tall chamber. Obi-Wan drew the foreign lightsaber up to aim once more for his head, when Grievous clasped for his neck.

“Don’t shoot- _Hold!”_ he may have heard Cody shout. At this proximity, Obi-Wan was as good a shield for Grievous as Grievous was for him on the Sector’s surface.

“But- But sir!”

Grip fastened, Grievous slithered upright with Obi-Wan suspended a meter from the ground by his neck. A vile laugh -and an even viler cough- proclaimed his victory. He lunged at the clones from either side, brandishing both saber and General to demonstrate his immunity. A secondary hand compressed the bones in Obi-Wan’s wrist, rendering his weapon ineffective. The clones had no choice but to give way to his taunts, falling further and further away as their anger flared hotter.

“Get-” Obi-Wan choked. His thrashing boots scratched helplessly against Grievous’ armored torso. Only when his free hand gained an instant of leverage over his neck did he manage to speak. _“Get moving!”_

And there was the order. Cody’s knuckles stretched white. It was a perfectly good decision, tactically considering. For the time being, the enemy was busy gloating over his prize. Obi-Wan was fulfilling his part well, distracting said enemy so the infiltration could progress, but why did Grievous have to fall under _his part?_ Cody stepped back. He could make this shot. One shot, and he’d signal the squad. One shot, and the General could take it from there. _Just let the big clanker dance his little dance, and then…_

_“THAT IS AN ORDER!”_

The sights fell from his unchanging visor. While Obi-Wan clawed and gasped at Grievous’ nonexistent mercy, Cody raised an icy hand, swallowed his emotions, and signaled. He may as well have been pulling a trigger, the way his fingers felt then. But before he abandoned him entirely, Cody detached the lightsaber from his belt. He didn’t say a word. He simply fixed his gaze onto Obi-Wan’s bleeding, writhing form, condensed his thoughts into one short message, and covertly rolled the hilt behind Grievous’ left leg. Cody, like any clone, was about as Force-sensitive as the many pieces of duracrete precipitating all around. He couldn't operate on the mysterious plane of the Jedi. But unlike other clones, Cody had spent much of his life deciphering a man that _could._ He then vanished into the tunnel, followed reluctantly by the three members of his squad.


	16. Chapter 16

Shrill screams of lightsaber collision chased the squad into the darkness, softer and softer until the gastric rumble of station collapse obliterated the noise.

“Charter,” bid Cody as he moved. If at all he felt distressed at their General’s predicament, his voice didn’t show it.

No answer.

“ _Charter!”_ Frustration peaking, Cody swiveled back to bark at his uncooperative subordinate. His angry headlight saturated the uniform line of men packed behind.

Charter flinched to attention then with the help of a not-so-gentle nudge from the top of Switch’s blaster.

“Uh-yes sir!” he startled in turn.

“You think this is a good time to be _day-dreaming?_ Look alive!” Cody faced forward again, rifle gesturing to the intersection that stopped him. “Left or right, kid, we don’t have all day.”

The skeletal blue map inflated in Charter’s right hand. He’d spent hours studying it in the night leading up to this morning, memorizing key passages, devising alternative routes – hell, he compiled the whole thing himself. But having beheld the dreadful sight of an almighty chasm guzzling sunlight and ashes in equal measure, the effort seemed tragically… Wasted. At this point, the model presented something closer to a fantasy than the useful tool it was intended to be. Regardless, he traced along the map from the last course he remembered. If he approximated the breach’s area correctly, then somehow, it looked like their squad was mostly on-track.

“Right, sir,” he said with more hope in his voice than he realized. “There should be a ladder nearby that’ll take us into the comm station maintenance level.”

No joy, no commentary nor criticism. Such things were uncalled-for while teetering in the thick of a mission fast approaching failure. The squad only moved. And when the waypoint was reached, not a sigh was released at the sight of an utterly uninhibited vertical passage leading kilometers in either direction. Each clone fitted into the tube – snugly less than shoulder-width – and climbed skyward with accelerated stamina.

The basement floor of the communications relay station was metallic and dark, as were the tunnels, save for the glitter of a thousand tiny lights calling attention to some or other unhappy operational status. Over fifty unattended holo-screens were flashing emergency-red in neat rows of five. Their warnings were long overdue. In a comparatively docile corner, a hatch on the floor lifted silently. An infrared motion scan wiped the vast room from Cody’s peeking visor: all was perfectly still. Thrusting the hatch back, four sets of battered plastoid filed in, headlights sweeping and guns out in front. Any cranny a droid might’ve found to hide in was scrupulously exposed with serial efficiency.

“All clear, sir,” announced Waxer first. Switch and Charter duplicated the message from disparate plots of the sprawling basement.

Following their reports, the headlight beacon flashed twice from Cody’s position: the covert (and offline) way to signal regroup. During his own precautionary sweep, Cody identified the elevator that was built seamlessly into the walls. He pressed the call button and waited for his team to arrive. Luck wasn’t their strong suit in the past couple of days, but he wagered that power would be last to desert _this_ building, at least.

By the time Switch joined the group at the rendezvous site, the elevator doors were ajar. Cody was holding a side open with an impatient fist.

“Eighty-fifth floor is prob’ly the one we want,” Charter surmised once the squad was complete. They stepped into the booth one after another, sequentially drenched in the pale light of a sole bulb installed at the top. The doors closed on their own.

“Probably?” Cody chastened, “I want you to understand that any floor we land on, we’ll have to clear out. And I don’t mean _‘escape.’_ I’m not risking any droid running to tattle on us to the rest of the floors.”

Charter fiddled with the map at its highest resolution, blown up to display the divisions between each building’s levels. “Sir, that’s the highest floor before the rooftop platform where the cannons are stationed. Employee manuals marked out floors seventy-five and up as belonging to relay control, but eighty-five was admins-only. Lifts won’t stop there without hand scanner override. If you don’t mind my saying, sir, I think that’ll be our best shot.”

“Looks like Chart’s done his homework!” Switch praised. ‘Probably’ had only ever been a gut-feeling-based statistic, for him.

“Very good,” Cody ignored, and punched in the numbers eight and five to the pad supplied at the elevator’s interior. The digits displayed in hologram above the pad as he typed. A seconds’ pause, and the input was accepted. The scanner came to life underneath with glowing red gridlines.

“Identification required,” prompted a feminine, disembodied voice.

Charter pocketed the holotransceiver. “Go ahead, Commander. Added myself to the list of admins last night. Your hand’s as good as mine.”

Cody raised a suspicious eyebrow, but peeled off his right glove and lowered his palm. “That’s shady business, Charter. Locals aren’t gonna like this. You get the General’s permission?”

“It was his idea, sir.”

The panel turned green. Cody rolled his eyes.

As the lift propelled itself higher, he refitted his glove and faced the other three men. “Listen carefully. When these doors open, it’s standard procedure for a hostile infiltration. Waxer, swap with Switch. I’ll take left wall. No EMPs. Might damage the relay.” While Waxer and Switch traded positions, Cody continued issuing orders. “On that note, all of you will double- _and triple-_ check your aim. You hit anything you’re not supposed to, and we might damn well be stranded here until the place drops. Have I made myself clear?”

The clones saluted in sync. “Sir, yes sir!”

“Get ready, then. This is what it all comes down to.” His rifle turned to the doors. He crouched at the ready to fire, and his brothers took aim above and beside him. “Show ‘em what it means to cross the 212th.”

All too soon, the elevator announced its arrival. The droids on the other side stirred at the sound, woefully unaware that the genial tone was a deceitful knell heralding their destruction. The doors had scarcely begun to part when the admin room’s grey overtones were suddenly obliterated in searing streams of radiant blue. Worker B1s swerved from their stations. They reached for their blasters, panicked cries abound, and were subsequently thrown into the delicate control boards they’d formerly maintained. Sizzling holes decorated every B1 in the elevator’s immediate range. No more than two shots per target, battery packs or cranial processors only. Impeccably clean, because every shot _had to be._ The relay tower’s admin wing was packed to the walls just as feared. Even more than the basement level, this room was adorned with all manners of equipment that stretched from floor to ceiling in more than one case. Razor-thin signal translation units were stacked by the hundreds inside long, transparisteel casings like some elaborate, interconnected bacta chamber. They hovered just centimeters apart from each other, thrumming in a fragile, harmonious sort of way that contrasted magnificently with the booming crossfire all around.

Cody and Waxer stepped over the lift’s threshold and into the room. They succeeded in causing a frenzy with their ambush, by no other choice, and intended to finish the hunt swiftly before the droids could react.

“Switch, block the exits!” Cody ordered, spotting a door across the way with the word for ‘emergency’ written in ten different languages, “Waxer, you cover him!”

“Right!” answered Switch, closely followed by Waxer’s underscoring “Yes, sir!”

The two dashed to the door, hurdling over fallen, smoking B1s, seething in worry when the red bolts they dodged crashed instead into the precious machinery behind.

Switch planted his back against the shallow alcove built into the wall to accommodate the emergency door. Waxer joined him at the opposite side, not nearly as secure but granted the advantage in aim. “C’mon! Get to it!” he urged, hunching down to minimize his target area.

A hand scanner, just like the one seen before, jutted out from the alcove at left. Detecting the clones’ presence, it requested ID in that same, overbearingly calm demeanor. It offered the red panel again, which Switch rammed through dead-center using the butt of his blaster. Waves of current pulsed over the device’s fractured casing. “That’ll slow ‘em down,” he speculated hastily, “but there’s gotta be something else we can use to barricade this door.” Aside from necessary equipment, the room was incredibly sparse.

Waxer flinched across from him as two bolts cracked the wall just over his head. He squeezed further into the shallow corner, and returned both shots with superior accuracy. “Well, we got a load of scrap metal up for grabs! Make a run for it and I’ll-”

_“Waxer! Look out!”_

Before either of them saw it approach, a lurking commando droid dropped from the ceiling and somersaulted into the alcove – a vibrosword embedded in Waxer’s left arm.

His scream was heard above the volley and clamor. The rifle fell from his hand, no longer enough feeling in his arm to hold it upright, and the droid stole the opportunity to kick him onto his back. Blade freed and creeping forward, it stabbed in again. This time, however, its stoic face was met with the hard knuckles of Switch’s fist.

The droid tumbled back. Switch fumbled too, silently reeling against the intense pain of punching solid metal. Waxer pried his right hand from the bloody swatch over his armor. Together with Switch, he recovered enough stability to pull forth his weapon and assume aim from close range. He wasn’t so unsteady yet as to miss a shot at point blank. But ultimately, neither man exacted revenge, for a bullseye shot sang across the riotous room and burst through the commando’s left eye. Microscopic shards exploded from the socket on impact – the droid toppled like a puppet without strings.

Switch clumsily avoided tripping over Waxer’s legs in surprise. While Waxer scraped himself off the floor and back into action, Switch located the origin of their rescue. Visible through half a dozen holographic screens, Cody was swapping the cartridge of his gun and reversing his way back to a corner for cover. And in that very corner, a second commando droid was on the descent.


	17. Chapter 17

“Evasive maneuvers!” demanded Plo at the head of his bomber squad. Blistering veins of phosphorescent plasma flooded through their formation, throwing every man out of control and skimming the port wing of the Republic’s borrowed star destroyer. The scattered pilots felt the lava-like heat of the beams through the simultaneous overload message that blared into their cockpits.

“Worthless kriffing Sep-sucking _cowards!”_ Wolffe cursed as he tamed the warning lights dominating his dashboard. Then more publicly, “Read out, Wasp Squadron,” he ordered with his comm link back on.

The bombers recollected around Plo as their call signs listed out. The supporting squadron, led by Ahsoka, funneled in closer behind.

“Master Plo! Is everyone okay?!” She and her men had managed to avoid the close call by trailing the others without a conspicuous goal to their route.

“We are unharmed,” Plo reassured. “Now stay back. Do not let the enemy identify you as backup.”

“Roger.” Worry subsided, she flicked to the next channel programmed “Everyone, fall back to my position.” Her fighter then dove, decelerating in an elegant loop that put her in the back of the line.

The one good thing about the Separatists’ long range cannons was their inadvertent tendency to scatter their own ships, as well. Over the past 24 hours, Plo and his squadron had become intimately familiar with this effect. Today, however, they planned accordingly. After every shot came a pause. Attracting a beam was beyond risky, but necessary to elicit a guaranteed segment of ceasefire before the cannon’s next round could be fired. It was within this small window they needed to strike. Once completely reassembled, Plo led his team in a V toward the cruiser head-on. Lesser cannons still sprayed at their ships, but the formation adopted a helical motion that dissuaded most of their aim.

“…There!” Protruding from the cruiser’s starboard flank was a distinctively large cannon that Plo marked on shared radar, neither firing nor yet charged sufficiently to do so.

“I see it, sir,” Wolffe confirmed, nodding to the dash, “Clear as day. Men, lock onto that cannon – firing when ready, General.”

Yesterday’s battle proved the futility of attacking five ships armed with _that_ sort of artillery paired with _that_ kind of intelligence. In response, the strategy was decided such that the destroyers would stay put, concentrating their aim from equidistant positions to isolate one heavy cruiser at a time. Bombers stood a greater chance for survival when pitted against one (or at least fewer than five) of these ships, enabling them to eliminate each of the enemy’s more pestilent cannons before moving on to the next. Defanged, the destroyers could then move in without fear of repeating last battle’s disaster.

_“Now!”_

Wasp Squadron arced gracefully underneath the heavy cruiser, emerging on the other side and unfurling a sheet of precisely-timed seeker missiles. The partially charged cannon erupted in a salvo of light. Under such rapid assault the cruiser rocked, accruing damage until the terrible craft started careening to port in spite of its stabilizers. Where the cannon once was, a smoldering wound now smeared the ship’s hull.

The squad’s channel was swamped with vulgar insults and spirited cheers.

“Well done, Wasp Squadron,” Plo commended proudly, reorganizing their flight pattern to maximize distance as soon as possible. His claw tapped the comm channel controls. “General Skywalker,” he continued, “Our target has been neutralized and we are prepared for escort. How fares the front?”

Whirling frantic among the remaining four cruisers was Shadow Squadron, formation indiscernible, hounded relentlessly by the Separatist fleet’s full arsenal of droid fighters. Not a single shot had been fired from their own ships in over five minutes. Already three ships were down.

“Oh, _y’know!”_ grunted Anakin uninformatively. R2 wailed hysterical from the navigational pit.

Shadow Squadron was tasked with the weighty job of occupying every ship that the destroyers excluded from their chosen target. Winning was not the point, where they were concerned. They may have set out with the goal of distraction, to inhibit the droids from bogging down Plo, but by now any pilot was simply competing to survive. And when it was time for Wasp Squadron to change targets, Shadow Squadron was intended to merge with Ahsoka to facilitate the transfer. Of course, any of this was conditional upon the destroyers’ ability to successfully confine a new victim. The level of teamwork needed for this strategy to work nigh competed with that of the hive-mind AI. Picking up on his distress, Ahsoka offered her aid.

“We can help. Wasp Squadron should be safer now that the cannon’s out of the way over here; Master Plo, is that okay?”

“Hold your position,” he returned imperatively. “Stay with us until the Admiral has segregated another ship. After that you may advance to assist Skywalker, but I suggest you remain close even then.”  Compared to the battlefield’s majority, the fighter droid presence in their confined area was scarce. Wasp pilots hunted the population down easily, almost in the fashion of some gruesome, vengeful sport. Ahsoka frowned. She doubted her team would be needed here any time soon.

Anakin hardly heard a word of the conversation over the enemy storm. “Right – Master Plo?” he interjected, something like fear leaking into his voice, “I think we’re about to have a big problem segregating that next ship.”

It took but one loss for the AI to correct its mistake. Right as the first cannon was obliterated, all five heavy cruisers began to aggregate. The space between them was condensing – relinquishing threat range in exchange for the defense found in cohesion. Not _too_ close, not to become a packaged target for the destroyers, but just close enough that restricting them from one another with artillery was no longer feasible. Even more, a section of fighters receded toward the cruisers as they moved. The act was simultaneous. Like disparate parts of the same machine, the enemy gravitated together.

“What-” Ahsoka stuttered, watching the movement unfold from the transparent roof of her cockpit, “How are they _doing_ that?!”

Yularen seized the channel next. “By the universe, they’ve done it again! Generals, those cruisers are moving too quickly for us to capture. We have no choice but to disperse for the time being—”

“We are _NOT. RETREATING!”_ scorned Anakin. The slight reduction in droid fighters gave about a centimeter of breathing room to his squad, which he pounced upon with lasers firing nonstop.

“Patience, General Skywalker,” Plo instructed, “We must reassess our opponent. Their concentrated positions could work to our advantage. Ahsoka, you may proceed to assist Shadow Squadron.”

She nodded, discarding her awe without further question. “On it. Master Anakin, we’re coming in.”

The resulting carnage transformed. With the addition of sixteen fresh fighters, the battle weighed far closer to equality. Shadow Squadron gained the numbers required to retaliate, and jumped avariciously to avenge their fallen brothers. Either side gnawed into the other, lasers scattering shimmery trails of metal while draining the stock of Separatist pawns. Unfortunately, the difference was decided in the droids’ superior replenishing capability. For every man killed, the Separatists had ten more fighters to spare. Wasp Squadron skirted the battle’s perimeter to mop up any stragglers, but their efforts were strained between supporting Anakin, pressuring the cruisers, and Plo’s search for a new plan.

If this was the enemy’s way of counter-distraction, then the plot absolutely thrived. By maintaining enough maneuverability in the distance between ships, the heavy cruisers had ample space to orient themselves unidirectionally. As they did, their sole disabled member took to orbiting the formation, sacrificially absorbing the destroyers’ best shots, while the four long range cannons charged.

“The cruisers are combining fire!” Yularen reported, “General Koon’s flagship is the target. You _must_ break through those fighters! Hurry, attack their cannons from the rear!”

“Divert all power to the forward shields,” Plo ordered in response, opening the channel that fed to his flagship’s command. The last battle’s end burned bright in his mind. Hundreds of lives lost, shields broken through in an instant. There was nothing more he could do. “Wasp Squadron, to me.”

A final gamble. If they failed here again, there would be no return. The 212th, the relay station, indeed all of Bespin would be forfeit for lack of the resources to try another time. Other regions of the galaxy still begged for Republic defense. To forsake them in favor of a planet so far gone? The Senate would rebel. _…Perhaps rightly so._ Twelve bombers surged desperately into the fighter blockade.

One cannon fired, and one Y-wing burst. The reckless charge left his Squadron wide open. The destroyer’s shields trembled at the same time, invisible sphere flushing in a blue-green ring of light that spread over the massive craft. The next cannon hit, and the next after that - the shields powered down. The next cannon, the last of the four, would penetrate the hull.

_By the Force, please not again._

As the Squadron drew nearer, inevitably too late, Plo shut his eyes. The clones aboard were prepared to die any day. The clones down on Sector 6 were as well, though Plo doubted the Separatists would be quite as kind to Obi-Wan. With any luck he’d be ransomed back to the Jedi. More likely, however, he would be tortured and killed. In this solemn moment of prayer and apology, no lasers were heard. Plo opened his eyes to find that in fact, nothing was firing at all. The enemy ships – every one of them – drifted along as though paralyzed in zero gravity.

“Uh… Sir?” Wolffe spoke through his comm. The phenomenon was so bizarre, no question could properly frame it.

The turbulent battle was still. Both Anakin and Ahsoka’s teams continued blasting droids, until it became apparent their targets were indifferent and unresponsive. They flew stupefied through a silent graveyard of ships.

“Master…?” Ahsoka probed, kicking off easy shots whenever a droid floated into her range.

“I don’t-” Anakin looked away from the marvel outside to spot the general comm channel’s indicator flashing red. Curious, every pilot accepted the call.

Four clicks, and a piercing string of static. Then the channel adjusted itself clean.

“…-Backup on Sector Six,” a clone’s voice requested, “Repeat. This is Commander Cody, requesting immediate backup on Sector Six. Repeat. This is Commander Cody…”

_“Cody!”_

“Fripping hells!”

“They’re alive?!”

Leagues below, Cody was subjected to a barrage of replies from eight separate authorities at least. He stood in the admin wing’s communication bay, a glass-walled, soundproof subsection of the main room, trying in vain to filter the call with unfamiliar controls. A profound slash ornamented his backplate and oxygen supply. Thankfully, the Sector's stratum was breathable. Hoards of defunct droid parts barriered the wing’s exits, which Charter patrolled faithfully. None of the four men had much left in the way of medical supplies after the previous night, but with the paltry addition of the wing’s first-aid kit, Switch worked to stem the bleeding from Waxer’s left arm.

“General Skywalker, General Koon, do you copy?” Cody asked again, after coaxing the relay into the Navy’s officer channel mid-call.

“Most pleasantly we do, Commander,” greeted Plo. Wasp Squadron shot down the heavy cruisers’ guns with all the embellishing spirals their bombers could muster.

“Loud and clear,” Anakin added with a grin, leading his men in much the same way. “We’ll prepare for landing as soon as we clean up some of the junk floating around here. I don’t suppose you and Obi-Wan had something to do with this?”

A portent pause from the other end. “Yes, sir,” Cody decided to go with, “Glad to be of help. Now, with all due respect, sirs, the situation down here is critical. At this rate, we should be prepared to evacuate refugees. We need reinforcements _now.”_

“Understood,” answered Plo, and set about relaying the request for carriers and medical support. “I assume the station’s proton cannons are no longer operational?”

 _…Kriff._ Cody sat. He flopped onto the wheeled chair by the comm input and dropped his face to his fist. “We’ll handle it. I’ll get in contact with General Kenobi-” _If the crazy bastard’s still alive_ “-and we’ll have the landing secured by the time you arrive.”

“Wait-” Anakin interrupted before Cody could end the call, “Let me talk to him.”

A considerable amount of self-restraint held back the sigh building in Cody’s chest. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,” he apologized smoothly, “The General’s not with us right now.”

“Not with you? Where is he?” appended Ahsoka.

“Can’t be sure,” Cody admitted honestly, “but Force willing, he’s still out there tangling with General Grievous.”


	18. Chapter 18

Wat Tambor’s fingers rattled in horror as he manually rebooted the original battle droid programming on a droid-by-droid basis.

“What do we have here?” Dooku challenged serenely, appearing at Tambor’s side in hologram.

Tambor leapt from his keys. “M-my lord!” He bowed, deeper than his thick robes would allow. “I was simply… Making adjustments.”

The accommodating demeanor vanished from the Sith lord’s bearing then. “Do not take me for a _fool_ , you insolent slob. Your _toy_ has cost us victory. As I predicted, your failure to subdue the Republic above Bespin has allowed Kenobi to revive communications. I am _utterly_ disappointed in you.”

“No! Your servant _Grievous_ shares the blame!” Tambor retorted, standing firm in his rage. “Had _he_ managed to kill the Jedi in time, my program would still be intact!”

Dooku turned, already plotting the mode of his punishment. “I shall deal with Grievous another time. For now, if you wish to maintain our good graces, you will turn this battle around! Return what is left of our droids to their original programming. Order them to _destroy_ Sector Six.”

Tambor startled back, his temper momentarily displaced. “My lord, _destroy_ it? But you said- But the Confederacy has channels running through this station!”

“Indeed,” Dooku conceded darkly, “As well as certain projects which _cannot_ be observed by Republic ears. As both you and Grievous have failed to preserve our security, I am left with no choice but to sacrifice our existing communications. I order you to destroy it.” He turned back, enforcing the threat of his will through his eyes. “…Or will you defy me again?”

This time, Tambor knelt. “No, my lord. It shall be done.”

 

\- - -

 

Fulgent blades of green and blue kindled wrathfully in either of Obi-Wan’s hands. From a broken ledge he sprung, high inside the Sector’s insatiable wound, and landed a meteoric blow upon Grievous as his livid white form broke through the mountainous debris far below. Blankets of sand erupted from the point of impact. Like Obi-Wan now, Grievous’ chest plate bore fissures beneath his enemy’s feet. Obi-Wan shifted apart and straddled the shoulder joints of Grievous’ four arms. He brought down his sabers in pair – a mirroring swing to decapitate his foe, but just as the heat teased Grievous’ neck, he intercepted the beams with his own. Three arms remained on the cyborg – the fourth was now buried in ever-growing piles of ruin.

Obi-Wan flipped back. He landed nimbly upon the jutting extension of a drowning lightpost, which Grievous proceeded to annihilate the very next second. Its severed pieces fell to the hungry whirlpool of ground and then disappeared. The two traded positions this way, flitting precariously from place to smaller and smaller place, avoiding the ground that drained into the island’s belly and out into the abyss. Their lightsabers scorched the moving sand, stabbing, slashing and shoving unforgivingly, but either General refused to be killed. Perched on top of a parking meter with plenty of ambiguous, sharp particles in and about his clothes, Obi-Wan finally noticed the blinking light of his wrist comm unit: an incoming call.

The distraction was costly. Reaction time spent, Grievous launched toward his heart and swung a saber in from both sides. The last closed in from the top, meaning the only escape route was back. Scolding himself harshly, Obi-Wan let himself drop. He distantly felt a lightsaber’s sting on his thigh before falling prey to the living dunes of debris. The sand gorged upon him like fine rows of teeth, dragging him lower as hateful sabers swiped over his unarmored skin. It was all he could do to writhe, wresting this way and that, trapped between Grievous’ blades and the greedy black grip of sand, when at last the pool brought him to the center where all was consumed. The Sector emptied itself here at the base of the artificial ravine, loosing everything into the gaseous wastes under the clouds. Grievous would not risk following. Obi-Wan disengaged his weapons – the glass forming around the beams constrained his range of motion – and reached for anything to pull himself with before succumbing to the pit.

A scrap of stone met his hand. He put the Force behind the strength of his body to heave himself out from his doom and on top of the sinking slab. Grievous’ incensed roar faded from his ears as he leapt higher yet, onto one side of the chasm and into a child-sized, circular maintenance tunnel. Inside, his heaving breath was amplified tenfold. The cramped position didn’t help much at all. Feet on the wall and knees by his head, Obi-Wan attended his comm.

“This is-” he panted hard, “-General Kenobi speaking.” The wound in his gut was aching fiercely.

“Hey!” Came the unmistakable mirth of Anakin’s voice. “What’s this about _Grievous_ showing up?”

 _Thank the Force, it’s about time._ “Anakin? Where are you?!”

He was soon overtaken by Plo’s serious tone. “Master Kenobi. We’ve been informed that General Grievous has made contact with Sector Six. Please report status.”

“Ah. That.” he began much more wearily, “You see, the General stopped by unbidden this morning, and we’ve since been having something of a disagreement over…” he paused to laugh, “Well, I can’t rightly say. The usual, I’m sure. But more to the point, while it seems Cody’s managed to repair the communications issue, the situation hasn’t improved much down here. I’m afraid things are going rather unfavorably.”

Anakin prepared his fighter for atmospheric descent. “Don’t worry, Master, we’re on our way down.”

“Now, Anakin-”

A shower of sparks filled the small maintenance tunnel, and the tube was at once sheared to reveal Grievous stabbing in from the other side. Obi-Wan’s hand flew from his mouth to his belt. The lightsaber ignited just in time to spare him a leg.

“Master?!” Ahsoka called.

Crawling backward into the tube while Grievous carved his way in, Obi-Wan yelled over the splitting noise of shearing metal.

“Ah- Everything’s fine, no need to worry-”

“So Cody mentioned something about proton cannons?” Anakin persisted.

Lifting his left hand, Obi-Wan expelled Grievous into a sandy cascade. “…Yes,” he said after a rest. “That’ll be a problem, won’t it.”

“You must eliminate those cannons, Master Kenobi,” Plo urged. “We shall station reinforcements around the Sector’s perimeter. Report back when it is safe to approach.”

Plo finished his directive, when to everyone’s surprise, the enemy ships began to descend. Two heavy cruisers, followed by an increasing number of still-functional fighter droids, stirred back to life and abandoned formation. At full acceleration, the growing flotilla raced down to Bespin’s thermosphere.

 _“Oh_ no you don’t,” Anakin warned, and U-turned to give chase.

“They’re heading towards Bespin!” Ahsoka exclaimed.

Obi-Wan twisted awkwardly to escape the shortened tube. “Should I interpret this to mean the blockade is still on?” he asked, guessing their answer already. Standing on a steep precipice, he squinted against the hard light and dirt that rained down from above.

“Unfortunately,” confirmed Plo. “Although we have dealt them a considerable blow, thanks to your troops.” He sped after Anakin, trailed by two lines of Wasp bombers. “It appears the remaining ships are heading to your location. We will pursue, but know that our support will be limited the moment we enter the proton cannons’ range. I reiterate: you _must_ destroy those cannons!”

The Force pricked at Obi-Wan’s nerves. He froze where he stood, poised to ask another question, but by instinct alone snatched the two hilts from his belt. His fingers had barely closed when the front half of a salon pod crashed through the curtain of sand stretched before him.

Time seemed to slow as the shadow washed over his space. The battered viewport reflected his unready stance. Obi-Wan drew his arms close, felt the wall meet his soles, and rebounded off with the crunch of transparisteel dogging his heels. The pod smashed into the tunnel’s wrecked entrance. From some distance away, Grievous wheezed on the opposing half of the chasm. He awaited the Jedi’s reappearance, not so naïve as to believe him dead yet, but unexpectedly, found no evidence for survival. The collision site fumed undisturbed. Surely that alone would not be enough to kill a famed warrior? Cautiously, Grievous equipped his three sabers and crouched. The cylinders compressed in his legs, springs coiling tighter, attention never waving from the suspicious scene. He vaulted into the air. Specs of dust and denser debris buffeted his armor in flight. He stretched out his claws as he neared to inspect – the talons plunged into the embedded pod’s hull at the same moment that Obi-Wan burst forth.

A smug, expectant smile painted his face. Grievous buckled at the power behind the cheap ambush, parrying blow after blow from an unbalanced position. He growled in outrage, slipping every which way to defend himself from bombarding Jar-Kai.

“Obi-Wan…?” the Jedi’s wrist called, “Mind cluing me in to the situation down there? He _llo…!”_

Grievous balked. The comms were online? _Unacceptable._ Slinking a step back, he collected all three lightsabers in front, and cast them in a concerted, outward slash to prompt his adversary’s defense. This battle had gone on too long _._ He succeeded in creating some room, but Obi-Wan was nothing if not uncooperative. Before Grievous could move in, Obi-Wan leapt from the pod and rammed into his core. The cyborg’s fragile lungs sputtered in protest. Together, the Generals plummeted off from the ledge, wrestling in a savage tangle of lightsabers and limbs, until Grievous’ back slammed into a jagged shelf of broken maintenance walkway. He thrashed, incoherent, willing the world to stay put, and at last scrabbled upright. …The Jedi was gone. He spun to his right, and then back around.

“ _SHOW YOURSELF!”_ he cried, but no one appeared.

Unquenchable fury ignited his frame without an enemy to receive it. He brandished all weapons, scoping out any angle from which an attack might be sprung. Finally, looking up toward the sky, he caught a fleeting last glimpse of one cheeky Jedi hopping his way to the breach.

Obi-Wan shot through the chasm in somersault. He landed topside on the ruptured stairs of the relay building, spinning both weapons in a self-satisfied ring. A pillar closeby granted a measure of shade, which he melded into gratefully and cleared his dry throat.

“Please pardon all that,” he dismissed.

“I don’t even want to know,” Ahsoka resigned.

Disregarding further permission, Obi-Wan eagerly tuned to his own battalion’s officer channel. “Come in, Cody,” he pressed with coursing adrenaline.

Eighty-five floors up, Cody’s heart skipped a beat. He closed out the holomap used to chart their next move, and jumped to accept the incoming call. “General!” he hailed, just as enthusiastic.

From blood loss or pure delight, Obi-Wan snickered where he sat. “Good job restoring communications,” he lauded, “I hear the Navy extends their thanks.”

Cody couldn’t find it in him to care. “Sir,” he insisted, suddenly stern, “Are you all right? Send us your coordinates and we’ll be right over.” Charter glanced to the communications bay, noting their Commander’s impassioned posture through the glass, soundproof room.

“Oh, listen to you. Don’t worry about me, just a few lovebites from the good General is all. Now, if it’s not too much to ask, might you do something about the proton cannons on top of the relay station? I’m told they’ll be a nuisance to reinforcements. You _are_ somewhere inside the relay station, are you not?”

 _Lovebites. My arse._ “Yes sir, we’re on the very top floor. Should be no problem if we get the jump on ‘em. What are your coordinates, sir?” he appealed a second time.

Obi-Wan sighed. “Fine, if you insist. Let me see- _Oh!”_ The channel blared with interference. Obi-Wan scrambled from his hiding spot then, a cruel electrostaff marring the tile in his place. A MagnaGuard looked down at him, unfeeling.

_“Sir!”_

“Honestly,” Obi-Wan complained as he stood, “Whoever programs these things could at least have the decency to acknowledge a conversation.” His lightsabers whirled back to life.


	19. Chapter 19

Heavy cruisers hurtled down toward the life stratum, their hulls encased in flames, clambering to eradicate Sector 6 before the Republic could intervene. The battle above Bespin was soon submerged in the planet’s inner atmospheres. As the fleets descended, the blackness of space gave way to glossy hues of indigo and sunlit rays of orange. And in addition to light, the atmosphere carried sound. It amplified louder the further they plunged, reverberating between ships until the true magnitude of naval weaponry could be felt in the air. Powerful waves pulsed through the brittle casings each time a cannon discharged. Massive streams of red and blue plasma split across the raging field, sending the fighters reeling from the shock. Three destroyers, three squadrons: only a handful of Republic pilots stood between the droid forces and the destruction of Sector 6.

“What’s gotten _into_ these _ships?!”_ Anakin fumed. He led his dwindling team in a train of dynamic loops that herded most of the droids into his Padawan’s range.

“Well they don’t care about defense anymore, that’s for sure!” she answered summarily, shooting them down in the order they came.

Like angered bantha the droid fighters dispersed. They lacked that sinister finesse they’d exercised previously – whereas before they operated as a highly perceptive, integrated unit, they now displayed the chaotic, individualistic operations as seen in earlier encounters. Vultures swerved in transient provocation, hunting one ship after another depending on which man was closest. The difference in tactics was as stark as night and day.

Wasp Squadron plagued the two heavy cruisers. Darting perilously close to their armor of flames, the bombers chipped away at the broadside cannons. No man could stay close for too long, however, and a decent amount of their missiles combusted from the heat before making impact. Plo spun on exit from a pocket in the inferno, dissipating the residual flame from his ship.

“They must intend to deposit reinforcements for Grievous,” he guessed.

“I don’t know,” Ahsoka argued back, “I mean, do they really need _all_ their ships for that?”

Anakin smirked. “Wouldn’t doubt it. Obi-Wan can get pretty mean if he wants to.” Circling back, his vivid yellow fighter curled out of formation with three droids on its tail. The clones behind could only watch as the upside-down durasteel of his hood gently grazed the tops of their own.

“We’re approaching Sector Six, sir,” Wolffe notified. “Transmitting coordinates now. Looks like visibility’s holding steady at maximum. Not a cloud in the sky.”

True to his words, the path toward the station was spotlessly clean, only a trace of fog peppering the troposphere in the distance. The planet was an endless ocean of mid-morning sky. And at the center of the incoming battle’s trajectory hovered one little dot.

“There it is!” Ahsoka proclaimed.

The little dot expanded, larger and faster as the crossfire drew near, growing more detailed until the island’s carnage was on full display. Pillars of smoke funneled out from the top. Most buildings lacked windows to their fiftieth floors. A continuous stream of rubble poured out from the bottom, and most strikingly, the entire floating structure was straining to resist breaking in two halves.

The smile faded from Anakin’s lips. Ahsoka gasped in shock.

“What the _hell_ happened here?! _”_ blurted Wolffe.

Plo weighed in delicately, solemn and stunned. “Commander Cody did mention the situation was critical… Admiral Yularen,” he called, abruptly terminating his awe, “Are we prepared to accept the surviving population?”

Meanwhile, Anakin assaulted the button programmed to his Master’s wrist channel. “Obi-Wan!” he yelled, “Come in, Obi-Wan!” But unlike before, there came no response. Obi-Wan’s channel rang out, long, empty and untended. Anakin stared down at the control board. He knew better than anyone that “unfavorable,” in Obi-Wan-speak, was akin to near-death. _“…Dammit!”_ he broke, _“That’s_ it - Ahsoka, Master Plo, you guys need to land. Shadow Squadron, follow my lead. We’re taking out those anti-aircraft cannons.”

“What? _No!”_ Plo refused, leaning into his comm, “General Skywalker, you must be _patient!_ We _cannot_ risk losing a squadron!”

And then the twin cruisers opened fire. Their long range cannons carved torrid canals in the air, filling the battle with light, and before anyone could react, Sector Six went up in flame.

 

\- - -

 

The wind below was arid and hot. Dimly, Obi-Wan felt the rough texture of duracrete grinding softly against his skin. Gone was the pleasant chill from dawn, cooling his overworked body as he ran through the city remains, now replaced by the sensation of smoldering ashes and… sliding? The ground moved underneath. His eyes shot open in alarm – affirmatively, the world had begun to tilt. He leapt up on instinct, when suddenly the angle took effect. Gravity yanked him back onto his face.

The last he remembered, he was high upon the sixty-eighth floor of the security and medical offices: the rail-guarded roof, where six J-1 proton cannons were stationed and firing. He danced precariously through a fine web of blaster bolts while an agile MagnaGuard kept pace with its staff. He spun lithely as he moved, one saber squaring off with the droid, the other gliding over his back and sides to deflect bolts. Both weapons, though disunited in task, flowed as though specially crafted to maneuver as one. Their roles swapped back and forth with fluidity and grace – the very apex of Soresu defense. Married briefly to Jar-Kai, Obi-Wan safeguarded himself in an untouchable shield from all blows. Cannons fell in his wake, operator B1s slain by the deflected beams of their fellows… And then came the heat. It tickled the fringes of Obi-Wan’s mind, all that was spared from his concentration. In one, vibrant burst, the world turned to black.

Weakly, he pushed himself apart from the slanted roof a second time, shaking away loose dirt and hair in his eyes, discovering that thankfully, both hilts were still firmly clasped in his hands. At least he hadn’t lost those. Amid his relief, the bellowing siren of a damaged J-1 called his attention from above. Obi-Wan turned his head up, right as the hulking machine streaked past just centimeters away from taking his left shoulder with it. He didn’t look back. Sixty-eight floors was a _very_ long ways to fall. More and more droids were succumbing to the roof’s angle, which, Obi-Wan noticed, was increasing by the second. It wasn’t just that the roof was hit; the entire building was going to fall.

He ran for his life. Sprinting uphill, he dodged tumbling droids, severed cannon parts and one resilient MagnaGuard that made a decent grab for his robes. Flat surfaces were rarely so unkind. The angle deepened the more he delayed, until the roof peaked on 50 degrees and his feet lost purchase completely. He fell. In a final, desperate pitch, he reached over his head and grabbed - the rail in his hand felt like metal-cast sanctuary. He hung bonelessly, breathing for what felt like the first time in weeks. Then, his legs began to swing. Back and forth, momentum peaking higher, and Obi-Wan flung himself onto the skyscraper’s edge. His balance was scarcely secured when he caught sight of Grievous ascending the building’s side on five legs.

Obi-Wan slouched. “You’re-” he wheezed down at him, “You’re quite _determined_ today.” It was almost amusing how staunchly opposed he and his tiny unit was since landing yesterday afternoon.

Grievous expressed no interest in banter. A good leap from Obi-Wan’s position, he transformed back into humanoid shape with two sabers burning. The last hand he reserved open: it was all too satisfying for Grievous to watch Obi-Wan sputter and choke in his grip. The railing crunched where he landed. His sharp toes dug into the glass, but he sustained no injury. He slashed the space where his enemy was last seen teetering, except now, the space was deserted. Again. _Slippery as ever, Jedi,_ he cursed or commended. Obi-Wan reappeared beyond his range, catching the rail in both hands before flipping back to his toes. He didn’t have time to draw a weapon.

The skyscraper fell, uninhibited, while Grievous lashed out. He advanced along the edge, breaking windows as he strode with little concern. Obi-Wan treaded back. Any chance that he saw to escape was briskly incinerated with blades whirling fast enough to blind the common sentient. If they kept this up long enough, the building would crash and take both of them with it. Yet Grievous fought restlessly without regard. Why wouldn’t he leave? Obi-Wan stepped gingerly toward the end of the railing, willing Grievous to realize the threat. He couldn’t intend to kill them _both_ in them in the fall, could he? The vital supports snapped at last, and the tower plunged at full speed.

 _An opening._ Both Generals faltered in the sudden quake. Grievous wobbled back, giving Obi-Wan the split second he needed to stretch out his hand – golden eyes waxed in realization under Grievous’ mask. He stabbed into the glass with all hilts. A violent gust blew over him then, ripping through the vacant space in his chassis, throwing him back with enough intensity to leave rents in the building where his hilts failed to keep him in place.

Like a rush of electricity, the Force drained from Obi-Wan’s fingertips down to his toes. He jumped, and a blizzard of glass and soot swelled up to meet him. The building smashed hard against the platform’s round edge in an ear-shattering blow that sent most of the structure into the planet’s wastes. It was somewhere mid-air when Obi-Wan realized he hadn’t planned out a location to land. Surrounded by smoke now, it was impossible to create one on the fly. He could only place his fate in the hands of the Force, trusting that it would illuminate him before smashing into something sharp and unpleasant. It didn’t.

Millions of clari-crystalline fragments entangled his body as he crashed through a window of the crescent-shaped Corona Hotel. He tightened immediately, prepared for the worst. But instead of the usual – pottery, desks, anything with the potential to produce a multitude of rigid corners – Obi-Wan bounced on a cloud of luxurious cotton and expensive silks. Argent pebbles of glass were still precipitating over him as he sat up in confusion. The room was… Extravagant, to say the least. Intricate ivory trim on the walls contrasted with sultry red carpet, seemingly plush enough to take a dive and swim in. Two chandeliers sparkled overhead. The gold-and-white furniture matched the gold-and-white bedding, accented with embroidered pillows and now stained with Jedi blood. Obi-Wan scrambled out from the jaws of the sinking mattress. He made to dash to the door, the next roof-ful of cannons on his mind, but the soft carpet ate away at his traction with a single, deadly gulp. The chandeliers jingled as the carpet defeated him soundly.

As he muttered various damnations of luxuries, the remainder of clari-crystalline was ejected from the glass wall behind the bed. He swerved onto his back, shielding his face with his arm, to spot Grievous’ sword-like appendages impaling the cushions where he landed just moments ago. Grievous looked back at him, and the leaf-patterned vanity behind Obi-Wan was a heap of neatly-sliced wood. The room was demolished immediately. Grievous slashed wide, hewing the ground where Obi-Wan rolled to evade him, destroying every piece of furniture sent his way with the Force. The dinner table came as a surprise, though, and cost him an extra two seconds before launching the slab back into the kitchenette. Of course, Obi-Wan had disappeared in that time.

“STOP RUNNING AND _FACE ME!”_ he screamed in frustration.

Obi-Wan had no intention to comply. At least, not until reinforcements were safe. He locked the room’s door behind him and searched for the emergency staircase. What he found was a very high-class refresher with marbled green counters and fragrant, carved soaps. _Oh, why._ Obi-Wan scrubbed his face in exasperation. He hadn’t seen another door. Grievous was tearing the room apart on the other side, as expected, implying it was only a matter of time before he cut his way into the dead end Obi-Wan made for himself. Slowly, he brought his eyes out from his hands. The opulent shower unit gave him an idea.

He stepped onto the unit’s sloped edges – _Really now, why would you angle these so? You’ve wasted any shelving space you might’ve otherwise-_ and sighed his resentment away. He drew both sabers down in an X. He chose a golden knob at random and kicked – the water gushed forth and vaporized immediately upon the beams.

With the turmoil outside and the window-wall shattered, there was plenty of ambient noise to drown out the sound. Grievous, having obliterated every hiding spot he could find, finally stalked toward the doors. First, he set upon the closet. Three horizontal slashes spanned the whole length and left the paneled doors burning. Crouching, standing or crammed to the ceiling, anyone hiding inside would be missing an extremity, at least. Next, the exit door. He didn’t have time to bother with hinges. The door was kicked from its frame and splintered into the other side of the hall. Grievous peered out, gurgling low in his chassis at the idea of hunting his elusive prey down _again._ But just to be thorough, he stomped toward the refresher. Right leg drawn up and loaded, he went in for the kick at the same instant the door flew back into him.

Voluminous peaks of steam flooded the room after it. Thrusting the door out the vacant wall, Grievous clawed through the mist. His lightsabers hissed at the moisture furling thick through the space. On any sign of movement he struck, whirling about aimlessly to dissuade the sneak attack he anticipated. Obi-Wan let him believe one was coming. As he sidled along the far wall, he lifted two digits and disturbed the chandeliers. Grievous obliged, severing the decorations promptly. Obi-Wan shifted the fraction of cabinet on the floor near the bed. Grievous chopped the bed into thirds. And just before he fled down the hall, Obi-Wan coerced an armchair to trip over a lamp on its way out the window.


	20. Chapter 20

Shadow Squadron shrieked over the communication relay building’s roof, swooping past in a long, silvery blur that sent the droids rolling like flimsy cans in the wind. Only those on operator duty were spared from the gust, cradled somewhat more stably inside the four J-1 units’ control stations. Even then the cannons rustled on their feet, but ultimately found balance enough to sway back into standing position.

“Tch,” grumbled Switch, “Almost a home run. Still, that’s gotta make our jobs a lot easier, eh Commander?”

The team was assembled at the very top of the maintenance staircase leading out to the roof. They stood upon the small mezzanine there, checking and reloading amidst various supplies and one disabled custodial droid. A square window in the door displayed the scene outside, though the view it afforded was miniscule and caked with grime from disuse.

“It’s risky, that’s what it is,” Cody replied. He clapped the seal onto his rifle’s cartridge port. “But if that’s the Generals’ decision, so be it.”

“Just hope they don’t come in for another round,” added Waxer. His left arm was confined in a single-strap sling.

“We’ll steer clear of the cannons, just in case. I’m not letting anyone get _squashed_ after all we’ve had to deal with today _._ Am I clear? Now,” he straightened, “The primary objective is to knock out those operators. After that, smoke the controls; cannons might be programmed to go auto after a defined period of inactivity. And keep an eye out for any droids on the ground. They’re down, but that doesn’t mean they’re out.”

“Yes, sir,” Waxer saluted with a blaster pistol held up by his head. Charter and Switch nodded in agreement.

The apocalyptic state of Sector 6 was ready to greet them all as soon as they stepped out the door. Dense, black smog radiated throughout the station’s southern hemisphere. The great rent in the plaza below seemed to stretch on indefinitely, now crawling beyond the plaza and into the buildings’ lower supports. One set of which was shockingly visible where the security and medical offices no longer stood. To the squad’s right, two gargantuan shapes dominated the sky. The heavy cruisers spewed pillars of flame tall enough to rival the withstanding architecture on Sector 6. And on the squad’s left, the daunting and familiar sight of three humongous star destroyers looming to oppose. Beams larger than houses soared through the city from either side.

A globe of plasma smashed into the droid storage facilities on the horizon, resonating over top of the maelstrom in a tremendous surge of ruin. The building shook, and shortly collapsed. In an unstoppable wave of debris, the entire Sector’s ground level was eclipsed in dust. The four clones atop the city’s highest point stood in awe of the of destruction laid before them – the very picture of textbook warzone, and then some.

Instinctively, his subordinates looked to their Commander for appropriate reaction. But Cody could only look on, silent and pensive, battling the urge to contact their General. The matter was out of his hands. The fate of this dingy slab was to be decided by the Jedi, and Cody’s attention was called somewhere else. Orders came first, even when the ground was falling apart.

He turned toward his team. A hard look to both sides, and a hand signal accompanying. The cannons hadn’t noticed yet. They fired at the fastest pace their recharge enabled, spitting trails of red plasma into the lawless cyclone that was Shadow Squadron. The fighters swirled in and out of the city, weaving close to the towers and bringing with them serial hailstorms of fire onto roofs of retaliating artillery. Something in his gut told Cody that this was a tactic headed by General Skywalker. _Unimportant._ He lined up his sights as his troopers fanned out to disperse potential counterfire. The operators went down in near-simultaneity.

While the men set about destroying the controls, Cody allowed himself the luxury of contacting Obi-Wan. His nerves throbbed, though his voice was still. “Objectives complete, sir. Send me your coordinates and we’ll move to your location,” he repeated. But like Anakin, Cody received nothing in response. “…Sir,” he started again, worries peaking higher, when his frustration was disrupted by the strangled sound of a clone. His wrist dropped in exchange for his trigger.

Further back at the roof’s eastern edge, Charter crumpled feebly with a scorching hole in his back. As he fell, a lone B2 was revealed standing behind him.

 _“Charter!”_ cried Switch. He backpedaled away from the savage droid’s range, filling the killer with pits though the damage was done.

Charter felt himself hit the roof’s pavement. At the same time, he felt nothing at all. His head swam, his bones burned, but altogether he was unable to stop himself as he sank into the duracrete underfoot. Had he been shot? His whole body felt lighter as he plummeted down. The pain gave way to a hazy numbness that percolated his mind. When he told himself to stand, the order seemed to come from outer space. The orders came louder, harsher, and even louder yet, when at last the directive was silenced. Charter’s failing sight fixated on a pulsing green beam buried into his chest. His head lolled – the last he saw was a pair of venomous gold eyes boring into him from above.

 _“Dammit!”_ Cody swore, “Hold your ground!”

Waxer and Switch scuttled away from the area with all the enhanced stamina their genetics could afford. They tripped over B1s as they ran, too panicked to care and too well-trained to slow down. Grievous came upon the roof with no warning whatsoever. He simply materialized at the ready to kill, catapulting from somewhere unseen along the building’s side.

Cody fired until his cartridge was spent. If Grievous was here, it couldn’t be long until Obi-Wan arrived on his tail. The scant squad (of _three_ now, Cody growled in vengeance) needed only defend, and await their timely Jedi miracle. …And yet, the cyborg advanced. Obi-Wan did not appear. Grievous slapped away the beams sent his direction with lightsabers spinning like saws. He abandoned Charter, sparing him not even a second glance, and targeted Cody as the most lethal candidate to destroy.

 _“General!”_ Cody roared into his comm, “Grievous has made contact! I repeat, _General Grievous has made contact!”_ He treaded back as Grievous stomped forward. _Where the_ hell _are you?!_ His rifle’s empty magazine ejected from its slot with a hiss – Cody shoved the last of the set into place. He took another step, and his heel met the leg of an inoperable J-1. Grievous enveloped him in his shadow.

Joints, toes, Cody aimed a shot anywhere he knew that the common swordsman might leave undefended. Regrettably, Grievous was not the common swordsman. With three arms and a wealth of Jedi combat at his disposal, he batted away Cody’s precisely-timed shots. He thrust – Cody threw himself to the side just in time to avoid sharing Charter’s ill fate.

Grievous’ blades stabbed into the roof at lightning speed. Cody jerked about awkwardly upon his elbows to evade every strike. Gun surrendered, he bounced between beams with superhuman reflexes. Still, in spite of his prowess, he lacked Obi-Wan’s precognitive edge. Channels of dripping plastoid riddled his arms, sides and helmet where he reacted only a hair too late. Grievous plunged another beam into the perforated roof – Cody held his breath as he locked onto the opportunity. His hand sprang, and he snatched the heated rod comprising Grievous’ lower right arm. Half a second before the arm could retract, he pulled for all he was worth. Grievous slipped forward. If he had the time, Cody imagined a pistol might’ve made quick work of this tussle. But equipped with the empty hands he had, he balled his fingers into a fist, and relished in the crunching noise that Grievous’ face plate made when his knuckles drove into his head.

As predicted, the cyborg stumbled back. The cracks in his mask paired well with the cracks in the rest of his armor, Cody decided then, shuffling to his feet in a strange satisfaction at the knowledge that he’d inflicted wounds on par with those left by Obi-Wan. He reached for his belt, and pulled the pistol from its holster along with another surprise. A blistering hole formed in Grievous’ backplate in the meantime; Waxer managed to exact a small piece of revenge for their brother’s immeasurable sacrifice. Cody flung his arm down and released the spherical package. The roof was abruptly suffused in smoke.

 _“Take position!”_ he meant to command. Waxer and Switch would know what to do. They’d have flocked to the roof’s only entrance, the only position of note, and would have staged an ambush if Grievous attempted to invade. They would have flanked the enemy from two sides. They might even have finished him right then and there, and the universe might have turned for the better. But through the thick curls of smoke, a traitorous blue beam lunged forth and pierced Cody’s lung before he had the chance to speak.

He gasped in the fumes. The immense heat of the blade shocked through his blood, stunting his ability to respond and cauterizing the wound immediately. The lightsaber withdrew just as fast as it struck, and Cody dropped paralyzed to his knees. _Bloody… good weapon after all,_ he heard himself think. The impending chill of death froze over his burning wound. The ground closed in rapidly, the smoke kindling much darker now, but an arm shot out to bolster himself before he could fall completely. He forced his neck to turn. He may have failed to see the end of this war, but he would see his killer’s face as he died.

…A foul gale desiccated the air.

Every sentient nearby suffered the same whisper of dread. It filled the space in between the layers of smoke, warping triumph into fear, percolating in a humid miasma that reeked of righteous fury. Grievous shuddered against his will. The pieces composing him began to vibrate, more vigorously by the second, threatening to fly away until he was unable to support himself any longer. He collapsed with a snarl. Gravity swelled where he struggled to resist. All around him the smoke was condensing, turning to droplets that precipitated like rain. At the same time, an implacable force sucked him back and away from Cody’s mystified form. Grievous’ claws dug frantic trenches into the roof as he receded. The smoke became liquid in his path. It littered the rooftop in puddles, making way toward the point where his unwishful destination was finally exposed.

Upon the precipice of the roof’s furthest ledge, Obi-Wan stood deathly still. Only his robes moved with the high-altitude winds, bloodied and singed, armor broken from two days at war. He needed no gesture to entangle Grievous in his grip. When Cody was stabbed, a landmine exploded in the Force. A bestial impulse guided his hand, navigating his blades from cannon to cannon on top of the hotel, droid to droid until none remained. It fueled the impossible leap from over one hundred meters in vertical height. The broken glass didn’t bother him while he climbed to the roof. A vindictive, grey glint flashed over Obi-Wan’s gaze then, staring down upon Grievous with nothing but murderous intent.

He lifted one hand. The decommissioned J-1 in his range vaulted up from the ground as light as a stone. He then drew his left – a lightsaber flooded blue in his palm. Grievous strained to watch, overcome in horror as he was forcibly drawn near: the modes of his execution were neatly prepared while he was helplessly subdued.

“STOP- _NO!”_

Obi-Wan did not hear. The Force screamed to him in languages unknown. It spoke of loyal men and flagrant terrorism, brothers-in-arms willing to die for the sake of a nation they were made to defend. It spoke of a universe torn by injustice, and a comrade so faithful he would sooner die than neglect his charge.

Grievous was dragged to Obi-Wan’s feet where the cannon came down. In a blind panic he scurried onto his back, catching the cumbersome barrel’s weight at the expense of his arms, which exuded a bloom of sparks out from their joints. His mechanical howl overflowed from the roof. No later than that did Obi-Wan strike, and the cannon was knocked aside. His saber came down in its place - Grievous lost his second arm of the day. A haphazard flail to divert the incoming blade from his head sent the beam to his side instead. Undeterred, Obi-Wan swung back around, though Grievous had used the time to employ a beam of his own. It clashed with Obi-Wan’s, seething aggressively as it sank under his dominion.

The weight of the Force pinned Grievous in place. He angled his blade as it came to his neck, desperately prolonging those dear moments before decapitation. The beam claimed his shoulder first. It cut slowly, deeper into his chest the more Obi-Wan pushed, declaring Grievous’ defeat with the strong stench of molten metal. His limbs wrenched for freedom, but little more could be done. And then Obi-Wan stilled. His steady arms wavered, his face taut with pain. He looked down - the dagger-like talon gouged into his gut once again. Any repair since their initial encounter was abolished at once. Streams of blood trickled along its length and drained onto Grievous’ plates in thick beads. Obi-Wan wracked his mind to keep hold of the Force; even a small lapse in strength could cripple his advantage – which Grievous prompted by the best kick that this prison allowed. Obi-Wan flinched.

The very next instant found the appendage removed from his organs, he was grateful to feel, but also found him flying into the air by a steeled grip on his ankle. Grievous lurched to full height, not missing a beat before slinging the baneful Jedi in a semi-circle that expelled him across the roof. The J-1 tolled like a bell where Obi-Wan slammed into its dormant hull. His weapon fell first, beam disengaging, bouncing rudely off the top of Cody’s helmet below. Its owner crashed in a ragged heap at his side.


	21. Chapter 21

Cody stared. His breath came in harsh rasps that grated over his throat and stoked the furnace devouring his lung. Obi-Wan lay within arm’s reach. Bleeding. Inert. And Cody’s responsibility. Arm braced at his side, he dragged himself one agonizing pace closer.

A trembling hand shook Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Sir-!” he managed to say, before the rest of the words hitched and drowned inside his deflated airway.

But between the turbulence in the Force and the choking going on above him, Obi-Wan stirred. Strenuously, he lifted his head from the ground. A stream of blood drooled over his brow as he did. His arm struck the roof, bones heavy and quaking with pain, pushing off slowly until he could reassemble himself into something of a kneeling position.

All the while, Cody stayed near. Fighting against his condition – indeed fighting to remain _conscious_ – he helped lever his General upright. There simply wasn’t another option available. Naturally, Obi-Wan agreed, and accepted Cody’s assistance without question. If they were to die today, it certainly wouldn’t be for lack of tenacity. Together, they looked out toward the greater expanse of the roof where Grievous still stood. He lumbered forth with a menacing air, albeit sluggishly and on the verge of combustion. His second saber ignited in threat. Provoked, Obi-Wan dragged himself to his feet.

Droplets of red splattered the ground where he limped to stand in front of Cody. He smothered the reopened wound in one hand, drawing his stolen saber in the other. His body failed to cooperate in forming an appropriate battle stance then, and so he just stood, swaying on bent knees, short of breath and awaiting the final confrontation. Cody did not sit idly. Though his body protested, he gathered up the forgotten hilt and shoved himself against the leg of the J-1. Shakily, he held up his pistol at the ready to shoot.

Before he could, however, Grievous’ right leg exploded in a shimmering array of sparks. He reeled, howling his rage over the incessant cannonfire, and finally fell in the wake of a second and third bolt. Both men turned in immense relief to see Waxer and Switch dashing their way, showering Grievous in plasma while they ran. Cody glanced back to gauge Obi-Wan’s reaction, when unexpectedly, he was swept to his feet. A brusque arm wrapped firmly around his back. The hand attached to it was slippery with blood. It smeared over his armor uncaringly, the other hand squeezing his wrist in attempt to support. He thus found himself draped over Obi-Wan’s shoulders as the two braved almost fifteen excruciating meters to the roof’s maintenance door.

Switch slammed it shut behind them. While he began indiscriminately bulldozing supplies in a makeshift barricade, Waxer tried his one-armed best to lower their officers as softly as he could to the mezzanine floor.

Cody lay flat on his back, breathing hoarse with fingers clenched over his side. At some point, his helmet was removed. The lost oxygen supply made for a terribly stifling environment, exacerbated with a compromised lung. He heard nebulous segments of some or other argument overhead, though as soon as his sight returned, the chatter was gone. A dirty set of plastoid-covered knees came into view to his right.

“Cody, I need you to move your hand.”

The General’s voice was clear and refined, even in the gravest of circumstances. Operating on instinct now, Cody obeyed. His hand peeled away, uncovering the gruesome remnants of his lung in a deep, empty, circular hollow. Waxer and Switch saturated the Force with apprehension.

“Good. Now hold still.”

Obi-Wan did not know how to heal. That was one fact among many that Cody was given upon his appointment as Commander to the 212th. And just as written, for as many battles as they had fought, Cody never saw it in action. Still, somehow, his pain was drifting away. He might have attributed the feeling to his looming death, but at the same time, he felt his awareness growing stronger.

He blinked, astonished by the increase in clarity, when his improving sight was abruptly occluded by soot-stained armor and blood-stained red hair. Suddenly, Obi-Wan collapsed over his chest. He jerked back onto both elbows.

 _“General!”_ he cried, very much awakened. But as he reached out, the pain flooded back to his side. It was like being stabbed all over again. And so he fell back, coughing raw and dry, as Obi-Wan rose coughing just the same. They each clasped their sides – only, Cody noticed, his was blatantly injured, whereas Obi-Wan’s was not. A cold realization dawned.

“ _HEY!_ The karking hell do you think you’re _DOING?!”_ he scolded bitterly, shoving Obi-Wan the rest of the way upright.

Obi-Wan swayed. He caught Cody’s arm to stabilize himself, pale-faced and shivering all over.

“That…” he cleared his throat to curb the nausea, “Was not a request, Commander. I reiterate – you will lie down and _hold. Still.”_ Surely he meant to look more intimidating then, though he failed to relinquish Cody’s arm for the support it provided.

“No, sir.”

Obi-Wan’s face creased in displeasure.

“I know my duty,” he continued soberly, voice weak. “And I won’t let any harm come to you on my account. Save your strength and finish this fight. If I die here, I’ll die with honor. Please, sir, let me have that.”

A pregnant moment captivated the two nervous clones on watch. Silence filled the cramped mezzanine, save for the muffled bombardment outside. Obi-Wan met Cody’s eyes with acute disapproval, tempered with something like grief and desperation. Then, with unprecedented speed, his palm slapped Cody’s forehead to the ground.

 _“Oof!”_ Cody grunted in surprise, followed by a disconcerting pattern of twitching in his shoulders and legs.

Obi-Wan pressed down relentlessly. “...Forgive me, my friend.”

He placed his other hand over Cody’s wound and drew in a long breath. The room ceased to be. All was enclosed in a warm shroud of black that excluded everything but himself, and the writing presence before him. The rest of the Force smoldered away; even the blazing torrents outside were doused with an overwhelming tranquility. In this mysterious space, Obi-Wan grappled with Cody’s will. It was no easy feat to force a strong mind to submit, but if he waited around to win him over with words, Obi-Wan knew it would be too late. His signature pulsed, wave after wave to coerce his Commander to yield. The resistance was agonizing.

_Peace, now. Do not fight. Allow me to help you. Let go of your pain and let me inside. Please. Trust me._

He could have appealed otherwise, of course, imposing commands to assert Cody’s role as a clone, but such commands would be vacant. After all, Obi-Wan never truly felt _himself_ talking down to a clone. The hierarchy wasn’t a matter of rule, for him, so much as it was a matter of respect, as well as an unfortunate necessity in the face of emergency. More accurately, Obi-Wan respected his Commander as an equal. It pained him to compel him this way.

Slowly, or at least what seemed slow in the Force, Cody’s reluctance fizzled out to quiet acceptance.

_Thank you._

The nerves in his hand flared. Resting over the lethal puncture, they ignited in a rabid pain that tore through the limb and concentrated at his side, exactly the location where Cody was stabbed. Obi-Wan gasped. He shuddered viscerally, biting his lip to detract some of the pain. His whole body drooped forward.

“Ah- s-sir-” worried Switch, stepping in.

Waxer held his arm out in front of him. _If that’s the General’s decision, so be it._ The words played back in his head.

Obi-Wan continued, bent over Cody in torturous silence, neither of them moving while the Force flowed between them. As was published, Obi-Wan did not know how to heal. It was a knack that certain Jedi either had or didn’t have, and Obi-Wan was not on that list. But after Anakin fell in his lap, he’d made a point to bolster his defensive abilities. He learned Form III. He tried (unsuccessfully) to enliven any scant talent for healing he had. After a frustration-fueled journey in literature, he discovered a similar technique.

Cody inhaled. A two-lung, substantial inhale that replenished the oxygen he’d been unable to fully circulate. The Force stewed about his wound, seeping down from its keeper, purging the ill by reciprocal exchange. Waxer and Switch leaned forward in amazement. They looked at each other, then back at the miraculous scene. Obi-Wan too appeared satisfied after a time, for he let the conduit close, as gently as it had opened, and slid back his hands. The hole in Cody’s armor remained. But underneath it now flourished the thin, scarred beginnings of a freshly-healed wound.

He sat back, his body aching to shut down. His lung spasmed every time he attempted to breathe, imagining for itself the same damage that Cody sustained. The Force felt unnaturally dull, evaporating out of his skin like it didn’t belong anymore. Meanwhile, Cody woke. He shuffled awake from a heavenly dream, blankets of warmth and security vanishing for a cold mezzanine floor. Above all, his ribcage felt sore. His fingers dusted over the source, flinching away from the sensitive new tissue on contact. When he moved to stand up, he found Switch at his side.

“What… You. What happened?” he demanded tersely.

Switch was prepared be leaned on, but Cody was apparently prepared to stand on his own. “Uh…” he contemplated. He was definitively underconfident in any explanation he might provide. “Well, I guess-”

 “Ha,” Obi-Wan snickered, drawing away their attention. He, in contrast, leaned on Waxer with his entire weight. “That’s- That worked better than I expected.”

“Commander,” Waxer answered instead, “It’s my suggestion that we move- _urgh-_ the General-” a grunt, and an awkward hop to keep Obi-Wan from sliding back to the ground, “Damn it all, Switch, give me a hand here?!”

Cody sighed as Switch intervened. It wasn’t his sharpest memory, but it was hard to forget he’d been stabbed, and perhaps just as hard to forget the urgency he felt while trying to dissuade Obi-Wan from sacrificing himself to rescue him. And here he stood now, breathing uncomfortably, but breathing nonetheless while Obi-Wan fell apart like the buildings outside. It was simple enough to put the pieces together in between. He slumped onto a crate.

“Frip’s sake, will you two just put the man _down?_ Switch, go get whatever’s left of that kit in the main level. Waxer, keep an eye on the door. I’m calling for evac. If they want their Jedi back in one piece, they’ll figure something out.”

He set the comm’s channel to naval officers – a bloody, gloved hand settled over his wrist.

“If I’m not mistaken, I believe it was _our_ job to ‘figure something out.’” He looked up and met Obi-Wan’s gaze, ashen but resolute.

Cody made little effort to hide his disdain. “Sir, I think I’m at leave to inform you that you’re not fit to be fighting a dead nerf right now.”

“Your opinion is noted. Thankfully,” he wobbled back, eliciting the precautionary arms of his troopers behind, “That ought to be all that’s left of our uninvited guest.”

_“Sir-”_

He found his balance eventually, bobbing between Waxer and Switch, nigh delirious as the Force drained away either in blood or by air. “I’m going to check in with things outside. If any of you care to join me, I suggest having a look at those cannons. They could prove useful, assuming you’ve left some operational.”

Cody stood then, a little too fast for his tender lung, but altogether unconcerned by the pain.

“Damn it, _stop right there._ I’d be a fool to let anyone out there in your condition. If you think I’m letting you march up to Grievous like this, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Oh?” A genuine smile. He reveled in the overt _life_ that Cody emanated in front of him. “You know, you were much more agreeable while you were unconscious. Should we rectify that before moving on?”

He raised his right hand. An empty threat, they both knew, but the sentiment remained. Cody caught the wrist in a firm grip as it drew closer. _You want to play dirty? I’ll give you dirty._

“Listen, sir,” he implored, “As our C.O., we will follow you no matter what, however you choose to proceed. But for what it’s worth, I am asking you _personally_ to reconsider. If that means anything to you, I want you to stay here and wait for evac.”

Encouragingly, Obi-Wan hesitated. His expression softened, and he withdrew his hand. “…Cody-”

The floor rumbled in a terrible shock. Supplies mixed into Switch’s barricade toppled down from their stacks. The lights flickered until everything went dark. Craned over against the custodial droid, Switch announced the dreadful thought on everyone’s mind:

“I think- Sirs, I think they’ve hit the relay tower.”

A pause.

“Yes, they have.” Obi-Wan found the feeling was highly familiar.

Waxer’s headlight spread a much-needed ray of light inside the disheveled space. Cody squinted against the high intensity, just as his helmet was forcibly slotted over his face.

“Always the forward thinker,” complimented his General with a rough pat to the helmet’s scraped cheek. “It seems we’ll be evacuating after all. To the roof, all of you. We leap on my signal.”

The barricade was swept aside like a frail house of cards.


	22. Chapter 22

The air outside smelled of smoke and burned rubber. Cody walked a couple paces ahead of the group, deliberately in front of Obi-Wan, intent on playing the frontline defense. He couldn’t reverse what had happened to save him, but he could at least achieve a semblance of reconciliation by acting as a shield. Obi-Wan understood. Such matters were beyond frivolous pride; it was a point of _being_ that many clones shared – an inborn loyalty that defined their very nature. To have forced his Commander to defy this, even to spare his life, was a serious breach of trust. _A Jedi does not impose his own ideals upon others._ Was it selfishness that allowed him to live? Or worse, it was attachment. Force permitting, Obi-Wan planned to later reflect on his growing list of flaws. But for now, he bid himself focus on gathering the Force. It had never felt so intangible.

“…He’s gone,” Cody declared, rifle down.

The roof was sullied with droid parts and fallen cannons, scored with lightsaber pits that collected liquefied smoke from abnormal black pools. Where Grievous once lay, he was no more. Typically, this would have been Obi-Wan’s cue to poke about in the Force, and although he tried, the waves never bounced back. Instead, he felt them dissolve just a few meters out. It was as though the Force no longer felt affinity for him, as though he was little more than a troublesome cobweb clinging onto pieces as they passed.

“Hundred credits says the old can’s not dead,” humored Switch, supporting Obi-Wan’s weight. “But at least he’s not here to stir the pot this time.”

“Don’t count on it,” cautioned Cody, and stopped at the edge of the roof.

The building shivered beneath them. The skies crackled above. Obi-Wan extricated himself from Switch then, mentally preparing to shell out everything he had left to cushion their fall from the top. Not that the landfill below was much safer, but it was agreeably less apt to fall at any wrong move. Limping forth, a small irritation nibbled the back of his mind. It was hardly perceptible given the otherwise caustic sensation monopolizing his ability to feel, and so no one was warned when five Vultures sailed in from the south. Three were trailing fumes.

A hand on his chest, and Obi-Wan looked up. No words were exchanged. The squadron of vultures was eaten alive on their path toward the roof. Opposing currents of plasma ripped through their hulls from both east and west, not quelling the danger, but inciting it by creating a herd of calamitous meteors that spiraled directly their way. The hand pressed in hard.

 _“Take cover!”_ he heard Cody shout. And then the hand was gone.

Each man swiveled on point. They ran, jumped and slid to relative safety behind the downed cannons, but no one was spared from the ballistic attack. The first shard plunged into the roof with such ferocity that anyone standing was thrashed to the ground. The following six were a blur, rampant explosions of duracrete that rocked the whole building and cast new towers of dust. The last, a whirlwind of eight, barreled into the floors just beneath, obliterating levels of delicate machinery that Cody’s squad had toiled to protect. The splintered roof erupted from within. In an instant, its fragments were ejected high into the sky, along with every droid, clone and Jedi atop.

For a brief second before the drop, all became still. It was surreal, the way that debris large and small came to rest in the air in ominous harmony. The freezing winds swallowed the finer particulates away, leaving a cluttered but clear image of the battle below. The Vultures came in from the south, and so the fragments fell to the north. The relay building was at the platform’s northmost end - there would be no landing. Under the squad now awaited the great, gaseous wastes of Bespin.

The umpteenth sliver of rock flicked Obi-Wan’s face. His awareness crested, and the world gradually came back into view: upside-down, no surface to be found. A profound ringing dominated his ears. How many times had he lost consciousness this mission? The side of the relay building descended before him. He turned his head: a magnificent burst of orange consumed the entire Sector’s west end. It unraveled wider and wider, slowly it seemed in spite of its mass, until the morning was lit with a dense coating of warm, ruinous hues. He vaguely recalled that end being the stage for the two enemy cruisers.

As his thoughts dwindled back to darkness, there came a tug at the hem of his robes. Weak, unwieldy, and then much more forceful with a grip on his arm. Just a slight offset to his falling angle, and Obi-Wan spun to his back. He gasped at the unexpected turn. His sacrificial lung fluttered in response, thrusting him awake through a short stretch of flinching and wheezing in the fast-increasing air pressure. Cody paid no heed, fumbling through his belt and suffering similarly with his right arm looped tightly around Obi-Wan’s left. As it turned out, Waxer’s team’s unorthodox escape pod entrance had come in great handy. The sloped side of the platform was creeping on level with the clones. He sighted the husk of his impacted pod, and immediately recalled their daring exit strategy.

It was only a matter of communicating the plan. Close-range comm was still functional, though anything long-range was assuredly doomed at this point. Switch’s helmet comm unit was also still functional, which enabled Waxer to easily convince him of the glorious invention that was the ascension cable. Cody’s, however, was not. A hurried prayer, and Waxer sent two pistol bolts flashing into his Commander’s field of view. He’d happily take the punishment later, if they lived to that time.

Something like a gruff “hold on” wafted into Obi-Wan’s periphery. The next he knew, he was hit with a stampede of recoil that ripped him from Cody’s arm. He lurched, paralyzed for a second from the shock of it, but luckily Cody maintained grip for them both. Downward momentum slashed, they swung from ninety degrees toward the side of the broken dome upon which Sector 6 was laid. Waxer hit first. If it was painful to watch, it was even more painful to experience. He struck the dome with his feet, prepared for the worst and yet completely off-guard. He may as well have landed as such from a four-story freefall. His screams went unheard over the battle, just like Switch as he made contact next. Cody braced himself to withstand the same. Broken legs could be healed. Obi-Wan reached – no doubt expecting to lessen the impact through the Force, but his contribution was dismally inconsequential.

It wasn’t Cody’s legs that hurt the most, to his surprise. On hitting the inverted dome, the incredible shock split through his bones, traveled up through his spine and concentrated around the frail tissue enclosing his lung. The wound tore, and against his best efforts, Cody could not contain his scream. Obi-Wan struck the dome half a second after him. He gained the meager benefit of sparing his legs at Cody’s expense, but the shock claimed him as well. His shoulder cracked against the smooth metal hide. His arms failed again. They trembled and seized, slipping further away, only this time, Cody’s strength would not be enough. Through clenched teeth he squeezed back. Forearms slid down to wrists, and wrists down to hands. They gasped for inadequate air, sharing the same wound, clinging desperately over an endless blue sky.

"Don't- General! _Don't let go!"_

The endeavor was futile, Obi-Wan knew. And though he refused to acknowledge it, Cody knew too. They were each upon the frayed ends of their power. The goal had been pushed and pushed back, finally breaking the line between survival and prolongment of certain demise. How Obi-Wan wished that Cody could hear his thoughts. To apologize for his intrusion, to properly express his immense gratitude, to ensure Cody knew that any mistake on this mission was not his to bear. But he could only hope. Their fingers strained, scratched, and then slipped apart.

Louder than the anguishing cries above him, the Force called out with overpowering sorrow. Even at his diminished perception, the feeling was nigh unbearable. It was horrible, yet all too common inside this detestable war. If only to strive harder to eradicate such sadness, Obi-Wan wished to survive. He drew his right-hand blade and stabbed into the dome. The thick metal flowed and gave way. It did not halt his descent, nor did he expect it to, but stalled it considerably. The path carved ever longer as Obi-Wan dropped. Here facing the bottom, or at least, facing the point where the dome’s angle would reject him, he was presented a choice: drop to his death, or grab onto the freshly hewn, molten path of his sword.

What would become of his hand? Surely this flimsy _glove_ material wouldn’t prevent his fingers from melting beyond repair. If anything it would become _part_ of his fingers in the process, further advancing the idea that this was a choice between the loss of his hand and the loss of his life. _It hasn’t stopped Anakin,_ he encouraged himself in the encroaching moments before the very, very painful decision. It also didn’t escape Obi-Wan’s notice that it would be his left that he’d lose, his non-dominant hand. _Well that’s a relief, as far as this goes. We’ll match. …In a mirrored sort of way. I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of that. Eventually._ He exhaled as deeply as his stuttering lung would allow. _…Force give me strength._ He reached out his hand.

Arriving as if summoned, Shadow Squadron appeared on the horizon in pursuit of a failing group of three tri-fighters. The droids weaved expertly through precipitating scraps of the relay building, nearly blowing Obi-Wan off the dome with the force of their thrusts tearing by. Either they didn’t notice him, or Shadow Squadron was fully appreciated for the formidable pilots they were.

“Be careful around the debris,” Anakin reminded his team. “They’re trying to… Hold on. …What is _that?”_

Swerving around a foreseen bit of falling roof, he disabled the autotarget system on R2 to zoom in manually upon the long, vertical cut in the platform’s underside. His HUD rendered the microscopic shape at the bottom, but in the second it took to align, the shape disappeared.

“Huh. Well, nevermind then-”

_THUNK._

“-n _KARKING SITH!”_

The reinforced transparisteel encasing his cockpit cracked severely, and he was suddenly blinded by the back of his Master, who overestimated the amount of traction existing on the hull of an interceptor.

_“Master?!”_

R2 wailed in livid offense.

Obi-Wan groaned, his whole body resisting as he peeled himself off Anakin’s damaged viewport. He rose to his feet, adding insult to injury by leaving speckles of blood that streaked along the glass.

“What the _HELL-”_ Anakin started, before recognizing he was enclosed in a pressurized space. He spent one agitated moment contacting Obi-Wan’s wrist comm, and when he lifted his arm, “What the _HELL_ are you doing on my _SHIP?!_ And what the hell _happened to you?!”_

Obi-Wan let his arm drop. He stepped down from the higher section of the interceptor to appease the screaming droid, and turned to give Anakin the Look which would stifle any more questions. Indeed, Anakin was well-acquainted with the Look, smeared in blood and grime though it was, and smartly accepted the fact that he now had a passenger on his single-seat craft.


	23. Chapter 23

Grievous felt the collision rumble beneath his limbs as he crawled down along the relay building’s south side. He turned – the maneuver was notably more challenging with only four limbs – and despaired to witness his lord’s newest property acquisition explode in a monstrous plume. It wouldn’t matter that it wasn’t his fault. The relay was gone, along with any communication they had to their secret project on Utapau. He dropped – the tower’s broken steps shifted under his feet. _At least Kenobi is dead,_ he assuaged himself, _and the Republic will never recover his body._ Yes, that could work to his advantage. It was Wat Tambor who was charged with the defense of Sector 6; Grievous was only brought in as backup. In a sense, he had completed his mission where Tambor had failed. Surely the Count couldn’t be _so_ enraged upon being told that the infamous General had been destroyed in the blast. If only he might have captured his lightsaber! Grievous sighed. What better way to demoralize the Republic than to brandish in front of them the hilt of Obi-Wan Kenobi?

As he brooded on his lack of spoils, the ubiquitous dust in the air took on a powerful current. It grew, swirling around a point beyond his perception, throwing rubble in all directions. He shielded his eyes. And when the brief gust had passed, he looked out again. In acute fear, he saw three new lightsabers cut clean through the murk.

The much-delayed Republic backup had finally arrived. If crudely, where Shadow Squadron stepped in, the anti-aircraft presence was at long last wiped from the surface of Sector 6. But to everyone’s dismay, so was the top of the relay building. Long-range communications to Coruscant were suddenly stopped, having only resumed not an hour ago. The last transmission sent had joyously confirmed the destruction of both heavy cruisers. All that remained now were the fighters they spawned and the droids on the ground.

Commander Wolffe ordered his men to cover as they leapt out from their ships. The opposition was thin – or so scanners suggested – but it made little difference while the field was a landscape of swirling dust clouds. The only indication of enemy presence was the direction from which they returned fire. Warily, Plo maintained a short distance away from Ahsoka’s back. They deflected bolts smoothly, stepping in time with each other’s movements, and would have been perfectly fine split apart. But for all their potential, they had no interest in mounting an offense. The platform was waiting to fall. Every worker and tourist holed up in emergency quarantine currently had no choice but to wait and fall with it. By combining their defenses, the two Jedi maximized their ability to see through this storm.

“I sense a presence to the south!” yelled Plo. His lightsaber swatted a bolt aimed for Ahsoka’s left leg.

“I feel it too!” she shouted back. “It’s the 212th, I know it! They’re in trouble!”

 “Agreed. Commander!”

Wolffe retreated then to answer his call, ducking behind one overcrowded Y-wing, but stopped short with a double take up at the sky. Looming on the descent was a notorious cruiser, disappearing slowly into the haze, right above the obscured outline of an even more notorious adversary. _Would’ja look at that, the coward thinks he can leave._ A malicious, toothy grin blossomed over his face.

“Sir!” he replied as expected, but unexpectedly, joined his response with an arm extended toward Grievous: a tacit request for permission to let loose the wolves.

Plo turned – his startled reaction signaled Ahsoka to glance over, too.

 _“Grievous,”_ she growled scornfully.

“Wolffe, take the men and search to the south. The 212th is in danger.”

Disappointment chipped away at Wolffe’s smile. He’d lost count of the number of brothers that Grievous had slaughtered. There was a gruesome brand of revenge left burning inside the 104th, and after a night with the 212th, Wolffe suspected the evil General was ripe for the killing. Still, he respected Plo’s decision to prioritize evacuation, and rallied his squad for their search in the south.

“Ahsoka,” Plo summoned next. His level tone stirred her from wicked thoughts. “Are you prepared to face him?”

She drew in her breath. The Force surged with excitement.

“Yes,” she answered decisively.

“Very well. But I must require that you _contain your enthusiasm_. Strike with opportunity, not with impatience.” He adjusted his stance. “Now follow my lead.”

The hovering cruiser was just beginning to eject its ladder when came the faint sound of crunching gravel. Competing with the fighters’ barrage all about, the sound only presented itself in the seconds before ambush – a flash of fear stimulated the Force in Grievous’ place. He spun, unable to locate the origin, and spun once again, reaching to grab hold of two hilts. Three were ignited around him as soon as he tried.

The blue saber lunged. It pounced from the haze at incredible speed, spurring Grievous to dodge. His malfunctioning knee, however, refused to move with him. He thus tripped as he stepped, and although Plo’s saber missed its first strike, Ahsoka’s did not. His back hit the ground. Again he clutched at his hilts. He succeeded in igniting them both, but could only lift one in time to deflect a single blade – Ahsoka slashed a wide vent into Grievous’ cracked chest.

He shrieked, a loud, mechanical shriek that died out with his ruptured internal flesh. Plo dove in to silence him for good. His blade came down, unavoidable in this state. Grievous thrashed, when the beam retracted at the very last moment. Plo bounced back instead, slipping just out of reach from the soaring electrostaff of one activated MagnaGuard as it touched down from the ship over top of its master. Ahsoka was not quite so adaptable yet. She quietly rejoiced in her successful blow, only to be beaten aside by the second MagnaGuard’s heel where it slammed into her face.

 _“Ahsoka!”_ Plo called on instinct.

She rolled into the dirt, head aching and barely able to see. The Force throbbed with danger all around.

“You must stand!”

Bumbling up to her knees, she shook the blur from her eyes. His voice was much nearer now, as was the consecutive fizzing of a lightsaber thwacking against the lethal ends of electrostaves. She willed herself to find balance. Plo had entrusted her with this task – she vowed to prove herself useful. Two hilts flew to her hands from where they came to rest on the ground.

“I’m- I’m okay!” she announced as she struggled to stand. Before her, Plo treaded the battlefield as though it was built upon ice. He flitted from one MagnaGuard to the other, spinning and gliding amid a spectacularly wide space which he maintained by the elaborate style of his defense. It wasn’t at all how she’d been told to defend the other day – tight, conserved movements, she recalled – though the longer she watched, the more his actions made sense. While the droids were apart, they could not coordinate. Of course, neither could Plo retaliate like this, occupied as he was commanding their distance, which could mean only one thing: he was counting on Ahsoka’s support. She reignited her blades. _I won’t let you down_.

She launched upon the second MagnaGuard from behind, one saber held out to strike, the other held close for defense. And she was glad that she did, for the droid rotated its upper half as she struck, aiming to stab into her belly before she could land the hit. Her defensive saber crackled against the staff. Even as she blocked, electricity raced through her arm and picked at her skin. Prolonged combat could easily wear anyone down against one of these beasts, whether or not they received a single blow. Skipping back a pace, she shuddered to imagine what a direct hit would feel like.

Right as she moved, Plo took her place on offense. He appeared in a flash through the dust. He jabbed, the droid turned, and he jabbed in again. Every strike was immaculately placed. It was testament to the MagnaGuard’s expertise that it remained unscathed through his frenzy, though it was incapable of much more than a harried defense. Then, as quickly as he appeared, Plo vanished again. Had he stayed more than a moment, Ahsoka could have jumped in to assist him. But he had a second droid to contend with, she knew, so it fell to her to rush in alone. _I can do this._ She didn’t need to win. All she needed to do was threaten its space until Plo returned. Together, they could overwhelm the MagnaGuard and then move on to the next. _Defense. Remember what Master Plo taught you._ She’d have given anything to have practiced a second time.

She sprung forth and kept her blades close. The droid whirled back around, completely alert to her position behind it. It swung – Ahsoka parried the staff, discovered an opening – but hopped to the side instead of following up. Maybe she would have landed the hit. Maybe she would have won, and maybe Plo would have been proud. Then again, maybe that sort of impatience might have cost her life, thereby endangering his, and further endangering the life of every sentient on Sector 6. A little pride was not worth the risk. Best to play it safe. Her sabers twisted and swept in harmony while the MagnaGuard lashed out. She dodged when she could, more often finding herself trapped and forced to accept a dampened wave of current as it shocked through her blade. Her hands were becoming numb. But she could not jump back. Her instincts flared in time with the electricity paralyzing her arms, telling her to hop away, to take advantage of her agility and gather safety by lengthening her range. _Ha, not like that worked on Master Plo._ Against herself she stood her ground, accepting the tireless droid’s strikes until her reflexes failed her: a glancing blow to the hip. The pain shot through her whole body and knocked her off balance. She gasped, staggered, and sensed the droid’s subsequent move, but oddly, she could not react. Everything shook. The Sector, her limbs, her sight… The staff rocketed in and she tensed to resist as well as she could.

Waves of distortion thrust her consciousness in and out of real time. The rampant Force slowed to a crawl, sped up significantly, and whipped her back and forth. She saw Plo, gentle and attentive, sitting across from her under the flowering trees in the garden. She saw a mob of clones pulling terrified people out from a jagged hole in the ground. She saw Anakin, furious, yelling over top of an exasperated Obi-Wan. And then she saw Plo for the second time, except now, his image was clear.

“…soka. Ahsoka!”

Her eyes shot wide open.

“Wh- Master!”

She leapt to her feet – when had she fallen down? – and wobbled limply with Plo’s hands for support.

“Fear not,” he assured, blooming his own relief in the Force, “You are mostly unharmed. Had the staff impacted your heart, however, I doubt that I could say the same.”

“What? It missed? But then how did I-”

Plo turned his head down to the side. Below them, a MagnaGuard’s severed head lay half-buried in dirt, a meter off from the rest of its body.

“Fortunately, I was able to find you in time to prevent more serious damage. But… My apologies. I did not forsee that the staff would fall on your foot.”

Her foot. She had been knocked unconscious from a stray hit to her toe. Sure, the staff was electrified, but even so the notion was deeply embarrassing, and Ahsoka reddened visibly. This would be one story she would _not_ be recounting to anyone later on.

“…Oh,” she meekly remarked, when the situation returned to the forefront of her mind. “Wait!” She stood away from Plo to face him with urgency. “What happened to Grievous?! How long was I out?!”

“Peace, little one. Grievous has boarded his ship. There is nothing left to be done concerning him. We must now focus on the retrieval of the survivors.”

She clenched her fists. “Nothing _left?!_ Master Plo! We were so close! You saw him, if we could just- Could just…”

Her argument trailed. Solemnly, she lowered her head. His words in the Force mirrored the ones that she played to herself. It was by chance that they encountered Grievous in the first place – their mission was mercy, not revenge. Defeating him was not their priority, and so Plo released him on purpose.

“I believe I have located the civilian refugees.”

Ahsoka looked up, determination renewed. “Where?” she asked seriously, and followed Plo’s pointed finger where it stretched toward the ravenous gorge.


	24. Chapter 24

Incandescent comets filled the airspace over Sector 6, collectively brewing into a greyish slur from the splintering husks of the Separatist fleet. Anakin’s starfighter wound deftly in between. He dodged the more lethal fragments with ease, but his skill overall was diminished tenfold while Obi-Wan wavered unbalanced on top of his hood. A frustrated sigh released from his chest. Dodging was about as much as he could do, bogged down so severely like this.

Reaching to the comm panel above him, he ordered his squadron with unshrouded annoyance. “Abandon formation. All pilots are free to pursue.”

A slew of “Copy,” or “Roger that, General,” bounced back without hesitation. It was simultaneously relieving and embarrassing how quickly the team broke apart. They’d be better off this way; it wasn’t as though following Anakin’s sluggish movements would do them any good. In fact, trapped as they were between a horde of droids on their tails and a fleeing squadron in front, it would be more foolish to stay put.

As soon as he gave the command, the comm light blinked red: an incoming call from a competing channel. Punching the next button in line, he was greeted by the adamant voice of his Padawan.

“Master Anakin.” She sounded grim.

“I’m here. What’s up?”

“Grievous is trying to escape. He’s on board a cruiser- It’s small. I didn’t get a good look at it, but-”

Only partway through her report, Anakin grinned. If Obi-Wan’s sorry state had anything to do with Grievous’ work, it was unlikely that Anakin was ready to face him in direct combat. But aerial? _No one_ could best him at that. “Leave it to me,” he resolved, “That scum bucket won’t make it off-planet.”

Not waiting for her reply, he flipped the channel again.

“Obi-Wan!”

Out in the open, Obi-Wan staggered as Anakin swerved, straining to keep up with his unwieldy movements while actively bleeding himself dry. He didn’t hear – not over the violent windstorm badgering him in addition – but received a distinct sense of _calling_ that tugged from the opposite pole of their bond. Instinctively, he turned his head. _I am listening,_ Anakin felt acutely, before seeing his Master across the ship’s length sacrifice a balancing arm to plant his wrist at his ear.

“I’m gonna spin, okay?”

If the stark look of offense wasn’t enough, Obi-Wan’s disapproval flared through the stringency in his voice.

“Absolutely _NOT!”_ he rejected outright, “Are you _daft?!_ Whatever you do, do _NOT SPIN!”_

Anakin smirked. “Aw, c’mon, Master, when you say it like _that_ , it’s like you’re basically asking me to.”

“Anakin _I_ _mean it!_ Do _not!”_

“Ready?!”

_“ANAKIN!”_

The interceptor plunged forth, as though the space before it transformed into a black hole. The deafening speed prior was leisurely in comparison. At the very same instant, the craft twirled. The time for obstinance had passed. As the ship turned under Obi-Wan’s toes, he surrendered himself to the Force – or, at least he wanted to, though the Force would scarcely accept him. It flowed through his being as it had countless times before, but now slipped on through like a misshapen sieve. There was no way he’d survive such a move without the guide of the Force. Yet, as Anakin’s ship flipped in slow motion, he _knew_ where he would land.

Folded in on himself in somersault, the interceptor rolled clockwise underneath him. He took to the air rolling counterclockwise in turn. Beyond his command, his legs stretched out at just the right moment - and caught the ship’s dorsal hull. The entire stunt was executed without a hitch. Even more surprisingly, an incoming Vulture blazed hot in his dulled senses. _Danger._ Somehow, he foresaw the angle of approach. The future washed clear over his eyes, a droid barreling straight overtop in the opposite direction, and as his soles touched the top of Anakin’s ship, his hands met the hilts on his belt. Each of them raised up in unison. They triggered above his height, suddenly shearing with terrible resistance through the body of one unsuspecting Vulture as it passed in a blur overhead. The two beams sliced through to the Vulture’s rear thrusters, sputtering, then broke free at last. Lengthwise, the poor droid spiraled in three parts toward the planet’s barren surface.

Anakin balked. Where did _that_ come from? He knew Obi-Wan would adapt no matter his condition, but a second lightsaber? There could be only one explanation, and silently, it thrilled Anakin to imagine how his Master went about stealing a dead Jedi’s lightsaber back from that wretched- _Hard left._ The instructions came to him like a slap to the face. Interrupted from his reverie, he jerked left, and Obi-Wan lowered his blades to lean into the interceptor’s abrupt trajectory. A second Vulture swept in from the side where his ship had once been. _Hard right._ A combination attack. Using the potential built up from the previous turn, Anakin slung right into a series of spins that carried him high into the troposphere. A spray of red plasma chased him as he flew.

Breaking the limits of the debris clouding below, Anakin rocketed above the platform, above the destroyers’ perch, and squinted away from the brilliant morning sun cresting on noon. The dusty filter of battle was gone. His raging spiral petered out to a steady roll, and then shot away again from two Vultures on automated pursuit. Obi-Wan stumbled but remained well-attached.

“Doing okay out there Master?”

He didn’t expect a response. It was the sentiment that counted more than anything, which was returned through the Force in a furious blare:

_You impudent arse._

Undeterred, Anakin welcomed his praise openly and without retort.

Meanwhile, Obi-Wan morphed back into position from his flattened stance at the edge of the craft. He stood, sabers yet ignited in either hand, circling around to face the pair of opposing droids. Anakin felt them too, perfectly lucid through Obi-Wan’s eyes. As a result he climbed higher, and in doing so, Obi-Wan bent with him. Their circuit was flawlessly complete. The instant Obi-Wan released his conscious inhibition, Anakin spilled through their bond.

Plasma raked the crisp air. The two Vultures fired ceaselessly from behind and traced Anakin’s flight pattern with unerring efficiency. He looped back, no longer restrained by doubt, bringing both droids into his inverted range. R2 signaled the lock-on with a chirp. The shots fired, but missed by a significant margin when the Force bid him veer back. The engines cut. Promptly, Anakin dove, falling like the many discarded slabs of debris that followed him upon his descent. He quickly re-entered the battlefield fog, and the watched as the grey veil above him bled orange with the heat of demolished droid.

What he didn’t notice was his lack of passenger. Obi-Wan had been latching on here and there over his ship in the past minute or so, reliably reappearing before Anakin’s viewport whenever his manic maneuvers became steady. Except now, reigniting his thrusters to a level comfortable with gravity, there was no such reunion.

A faint buzz of worry combed down his frame.

“…Obi-Wan?” he probed over comm.

A switch flicked, a code entered, and R2 confirmed: Anakin was currently the only sentient aboard his agile ship.

“Dammit,” he moaned to quash his concern. “Try to hold on, would you?”

The further Anakin sailed, the worse Obi-Wan felt. He pounced as soon as the interceptor fired its shots. They both knew it – those bolts were wasted the very moment that group of tri-fighters broke out from the haze. This elevated position was about to become _very_ messy, and true as predicted, Anakin ducked out of the fight with impeccable timing. In his sudden absence, tri-fighter bolts smashed into Vultures, Vulture scraps smashed into tri-fighters, and everything exploded in its own miniature version of Sector 6. Obi-Wan was left behind in this tumult, or rather left _himself_ behind, and was now clinging precariously to a tri-fighter’s top stabilizer. It wasn’t _down there_ where he sensed the repulsive omen. It was on the rise and _up here_ , whether Anakin sensed it or not.

The other droids took aim. Parasitized now by the enemy, they showed no mercy in hunting down their fellow, which dipped and spun wildly to shake its organic presence before being blown apart. Riding a droid was nothing like riding Anakin’s fighter, Obi-Wan soon discovered. Its actions were unexpected. Not that Anakin’s piloting style could be considered “expectable” by anyone’s standards, but with the enormous strength of their bond, Obi-Wan could almost feel the ship’s controls in his hands. And now that the distance between them was expanding rapidly, he no longer fed from that strength. The droid lurched, a fiery gap eating away at its core.

As Anakin ascended again, a dark torrent of malice rushed past. He sucked in his breath with a start. The feeling was fleeting, rank and unfamiliar, but something set it apart from the muddled chaos stewing below. And then it hit him. R2 sent warning of an unknown cruiser boosting out toward the stratosphere, but Anakin didn’t need his report. His thrusters surged to give chase.

“Obi-Wan. I found Grievous,” he tried with meager hope, _“I need to know where you are.”_

But no amount of deliberateness would elicit a response. Weaving around the mysteriously precipitating tri-fighter parts, Anakin grit his teeth. He was thoroughly tired of dealing with shoddy communications.

This time Obi-Wan failed to respond not by his inability to do so, but because any distraction might have offset his planned collision with the nose of Grievous’ ship. He fell, senses attuned, plummeting down toward the cruiser rocketing upward his way. And to his credit, he survived the blunt impact. The bones in his legs might disagree later on, but through the aid of the Force, he averted much worse.

“We are detecting an organic signature outside the ship,” announced the tactical droid at the helm.

Grievous, doubled over in his commander’s chair, was in no mood to investigate. “It is only the native _vermin._ Do not-” His orders were rendered unintelligible then while he hacked and heaved and threw sparks at the slightest movement.

“Sir,” continued the droid. Its intended emphasis was lost in the monotonous drone of its voice. It was thereby incapable of expressing the dire threat, before two gleaming holes punched in through the long viewport. One green, one blue. If he wasn’t so crippled already, Grievous might have screamed.

“SHAKE-” a horrid gasp interrupted him with the sound of a drowning speeder bike. _“-SHAKE HIM!”_

Three quarters of a circle through the transparisteel, the cruiser bucked madly. It did no favors for Grievous, but pained though he was, he was pleased to find the Jedi no longer in sight. He didn’t care how a flightless human had made its way onto a craft near the stratosphere. All he knew was that the pestilent man was alive, and if all the trouble he went through on Bespin hadn’t killed him, then terminal freefall probably wouldn’t either. _Curses._ Count Dooku would _not_ be forgiving.

Obi-Wan flopped to his back from the place where he fell, the portside retractable wing of the escaping cruiser. _Force, what a terrible plan,_ he condemned himself as he pushed to resume his impromptu infiltration. He grunted, squirmed, but accomplished nothing as the pain stripped his nerves raw. Not only that, but the altitude was quickly breaching the upper bounds of the life zone. Oxygen was even sparser here than it was when he hitched a ride from Anakin leagues above Sector 6. The temperature was far below freezing, and dropping ever more. Altogether there was no more benefit to be had in breathing or moving. Obi-Wan writhed in protest. His lethargic blood froze instantly where it sprayed on the wing, creeping up along his robes and crystalizing inside his wounds. He could have died there quite peacefully, cold asphyxiation blotting out all feeling before painting his vision black, but the two wings retracted, preparing for space travel, slowly scraping Obi-Wan off the side of the hull. He was powerless to resist.

Just as the cruiser was rid of him, though, it suffered a potent jolt to its rear.

“Sir,” the perpetually calm tactical droid reported again, “It appears we have lost our tertiary thrusters. Scanners detect-” it paused to process, “-A single Republic interceptor. What are your-”

The ship lurched again. This time, the cabin flashed red.

“Nice one, R2,” Anakin praised. He stormed ahead at full power behind Grievous. The first shot was meant to hinder his target; it was R2’s personal touch to knock out one of the loading ports for a hyperspace ring. The only thing left was the kill. Anakin keyed in the launch for two precious missiles, when his magnified lock-on screen showed one small blip in the periphery. A bit off the cruiser? He begged with the Force for that to be the case, though he wasn’t surprised in the least to see he was wrong.

“Kriffing… _Really?! Now?!”_ Ruefully, he cancelled both missiles. _“Ugh._ Hang on, I’m coming.”

His fighter hurtled back in a wide U shape aimed to intercept Obi-Wan’s position. He didn’t bother trying the comm him a third time around – it was abundantly clear that his Master was in no way capable of answering at this point. To that end, it was also abundantly clear that _unconscious_ was no way to land on a ship, and so as he dove in, Anakin busied himself unfastening his safety constraints. He flicked on the auto-pilot, evoking a tweet of confusion from R2.

“Well, _somebody_ has to catch him.” He pulled a red lever – the viewport peeled back.


	25. Chapter 25

Anakin staggered against the cruel, icy winds that assaulted him on his first step on top of the hull. It was like trying to balance through an arctic hurricane out here; his body heat was sapped within seconds, and it took his full strength and concentration simply to avoid being thrown into oblivion. Obi-Wan made it look _much_ easier, Anakin immediately thought, though in his case, he could commune with his pilot to predict the ship’s movements. Anakin, by contrast, had no such advantage. R2 was performing quite well, as expected, but as a droid, had no way to indicate his maneuvers in real time. It was therefore Anakin’s efforts alone that would keep him on board – but how could he possibly expect to catch another person like this?

He took another step, legs trembling beneath him. There had to be some kind of trick to this. Obi-Wan’s life _depended_ on there being some trick to this. Pressure rising, Anakin flicked his view from his uncertain feet to the figure plummeting in the bright blue distance, rapidly approaching as the interceptor drew near. He wasn’t ready. A few seconds weren’t nearly enough to adequately adjust to the erratic gales of Bespin’s upper atmosphere. At this rate, if he was lucky enough to catch him at all, they’d both end up freefalling to their deaths. Obi-Wan just needed to fall slower, and then maybe this could work out. Unfortunately, even that required Anakin to harness the Force: a near-impossible task, considering how difficult it was already to keep himself upright.

As the ship reached a point level with Obi-Wan, R2 accelerated, steepening their angle to match his descending speed. The air whipped back in dissent. Anakin wobbled against it uncontrollably, battling the currents that struck out and threatened to toss him aside. As soon as he stretched out an arm Obi-Wan’s way, he was forced to withdraw. Leaning too far in any direction had him floating away from the hood, which… Now that he thought of it, was extraordinarily helpful. That is, assuming R2 didn’t take off with the ship. He drew in his knees. Thankfully, the ship remained under him, neither falling away nor coming too close. R2 had cleverly matched their target’s velocity, meaning Anakin was free to move as he pleased. Hovering this way, there was no need to balance.

Anakin lifted his hands. His once-scattered concentration pinpointed upon the mangled form several meters away, wrapping him tightly in the folds of the Force, pulling him closer through the grip of the winds. _I’ll be taking that, thank you very much._ The Force quivered in an oppressive wave. Obi-Wan drifted lifelessly inside its will, dragged compulsorily until he met Anakin’s touch, whereupon he deflated into a pair of possessive arms. Sighting this, R2 slowed the ship ever so gently to catch them in turn. Anakin’s boots made contact with the hull once again, and the grey fog enveloped them not a second later.

Blanketed now within the slur, they could only hear it when the lightning bolt _crash_ came from the storm’s center around Sector 6. Anakin turned to squint blindly upon the dim silhouette of the floating island as it severed at last, powering down and crumbling in two halves toward the planet’s vacant surface.

Everyone scrambling inside the city felt the drop far more acutely. Like an elevator descending, Ahsoka was suddenly lifted away from the floor of the wide quarantine room, along with every terrified citizen under her care. Their screams echoed loud across the tall walls. Plo jostled at his perch near the room’s ceiling where he’d carved a path through the labyrinth tunnel system leading straight to the breach outside. He knew what had happened, just as these refugees did.

“Ahsoka!” he shouted over their collective hysteria. It was deplorable, but the worst case scenario had come to pass. The only thing left to do now was escape on their own. Not every mission allowed the innocents to be saved.

Competing ideas raced through Ahsoka’s mind as she wedged between persons. Intuitively, she felt the need to restore order, institute a calm attitude among the victim population, and proceed from there. But what then? Her and Plo’s one-by-one evacuation strategy was useless while they didn’t have the time it required to safely pass each individual up to the ceiling tunnel. They’d only rescued a few when the platform gave out. More than a hundred remained. She couldn’t just _give up_ on them all. …Could she? Plo’s urgent gesture seemed to indicate that she could. Far and above her he waved his arm back, in toward the tunnel, compelling her to retreat. But she couldn’t bear to perceive what any of these citizens might feel if they saw her obey. A last hope abolished. A hatred for Jedi. Their last living emotion would tell of betrayal, before being snuffed in a gruesome crash.

_“Do something!”_

“You’re Jedi, aren’t you?!”

“Take _me!”_

Dozens of desperate pleas clamored to garner her sympathy. Frantic hands clenched all over her body, vying to preserve themselves as if Ahsoka were some magical, life-giving beacon. She pulled and wrenched from them – the room clotted with a heavy, infectious fear that buried her in its weight.

“I’m sorry! I- I can’t! Let go of me!”

Her cries were ignored, if at all they were heard. She ceased to be sentient in their terror-filled eyes, just a means of escape with limited capacity.

_“Stop it!”_

Their manic thoughts were even more suffocating than the limbs they used to strangle her. When she thrust them away, more would latch on to her arm. She didn’t want to leave, at least not initially, but now she wasn’t even given the option. Scratches carved into her arms and dug through her clothes. Anonymous nails ate into her skin and were ripped away, perpetually in cycle fueled by the deathmatch going on around her. The fear etching into her mind nearly brought her lightsaber to bear, but all at once the mob fell to the ground in a tangled mass. Finally, the insatiable fingers were gone. In their place came an invisible set, Plo’s careful presence plucking her out from the rest, raising her high out of reach from the sea of covetous refugees. The mournful sounds they made would surely ring in Ahsoka’s ears for months to come.

 

\- - -

 

“General Koon. We’ve located the 212th and the LAATs are inbound. ETA thirty seconds. We’ll wait for you at the breach.”

It wasn’t the first update to go unacknowledged. Wolffe and his squad entered the power facilities’ ground level through a shattered glass wall that, on further inspection, had once been two doors. Inside, the scene was sheer horror. Dead brothers were seen through the fog, draped over extravagant pieces of furniture that had been flipped on their sides to constitute a barricade against the MagnaGuard that invaded their den. Obviously, it didn’t work. Some of the troopers were missing pieces of armor, Wolffe noticed, decorated instead with emergency kit bandages or makeshift splits. The picture was loathsome as it was clear: the droid raided a medical post. And by the looks of it, most of the 212th had been here when it happened. The MagnaGuard’s unmoving corpse was splayed near the entrance, cuing the Wolfpack further inside as Sinker startled the team to alarm when he stepped on its face.

Maybe half of the men were alive there to greet them. Mackenzie was especially so, in spite of his wounds, for he landed a shot through the collarbone of Wolffe’s tracking specialist before being rushed by three other clones. Once subdued, his story confirmed their suspicions: the hideout was penetrated, and several men died in defense of the more critically injured. Anyone else was out in the field. And it appeared that those in the field would be _lost_ in the field, because just then, the station quaked in an ear-splitting groan, and the murky cloud over the city ascended while Sector 6 dropped.

Running through the derelict city was like running on a low-gravity moon; the injured were shuttled into daylight with remarkable ease. Smaller bits of wreckage began to float where they stirred from the ground, culminating a diffuse soup of inconsequential obstacles that chewed at the plating over every clone’s legs. Evac was late, it turned out – the LAATs were unable to land. They bounced on uneven terrain made of pits and debris, struggling in addition to compensate for the Sector’s growing speed as it dropped. The best they could do was to kill their thrusters somewhere close to the ground, so that evacuees could be passed up as distance permitted.

Wolffe supervised the tenuous operation, keeping one eye on the chasm for any sign of Plo. The gap was impassable now. It spanned all the way from one end of the platform to the other, a monster’s jaw that yawned ever wider and severed the station in a bottomless trench.

“Commander Cody, do you read me?” It was at least worth a shot. If he could provide exact coordinates, there was a chance someone could pick him up. And a Commander was rarely found on his own: if Cody survived, there were likely more with him.

Miraculously, the trio remained suspended along the station’s edge. Except, whereas their previous situation had them dangling down toward the planet, they now dangled up toward the sky. Cody’s right wrist was ensnared in cord. The comm unit attached blinked to summon him, but aside from him having no means to answer it, he was stricken by the magnificent sight of a Republic destroyer soaring in from the south. Its mountainous presence consumed the horizon.

In one, concerted act, the three ships extended their vast docking bridges, and right as they each connected to Sector 6 from east, west and below, the plunge was terminated at once.

LAATs hovering delicately smashed into the ground. The Wolfpack was floored with their fragile patients. Plo and Ahsoka were safe by comparison inside the narrow tunnel, but as usual, the worst of this mission chose Cody, who received a slow, deliberate shake of the head from Switch as the three fell again from the maximum height their cables allowed.


	26. Chapter 26

Lowering the interceptor toward the stabilized platform, R2 whistled an encouraging string of commentary regarding the commotion below. Anakin's plan worked. His creativity was communicated decisively to each commanding officer inside each star destroyer, and though the process was rough, the drop had been ceased and many lives saved. Cargo and medical droids were interspersed among clones as they bustled en masse along the east and west docking bridges to secure the city remains. 501st and 104th ground troops fanned out from there, while the droids marched on to the evac and medical operations that were busily resuming near the plaza. Brewing below was the large-scale backup the 212th so desperately needed, although at a day late, the assistance was arguably useless. Enemy patrol units were soundly defeated, the air devoid of Separatist fighters. And if any J-1s had managed to cling to their roosts through Shadow Squadron’s indelicate reaping, the drop had certainly finished them off. The supplementary troops were, in a brutally honest way, the cleaning crew.

Undisturbed by cannon fire, the interceptor touched down gracefully at a more-or-less flat stretch of ground only a short distance off from the central hub of activity. Anakin jumped from the hood. There was no time to celebrate his tactical quick thinking. He landed with a puff of dust that curdled about his feet, and while he meant to press on to the evac area for Obi-Wan’s sake, his legs buckled in disorientation from the abrupt shift to solid ground. He cursed under his breath as he floundered to catch himself on one knee – successfully, if only just. Obi-Wan’s pallid face scrunched in discomfort where it lay on his shoulder.

“Master?” The words came without thought. “Hey. Just stay still. Don’t worry - I’ve got you.” In truth, Anakin had been consciously stowing his doubts to this point. It was a habit of war (or merely a habit of being a Jedi) that he was able to suppress his overwhelming fear of the situation at hand. When his squadron entered the smoking arena that was Sector 6, anyone could guess that things would be ugly. But only Anakin, with years of firsthand experience, thought first that his former Master was bound to look equally maimed.

“Mmn… Anakin?” Pads of raw skin gripped Anakin’s pauldron through frayed, well-worn gloves.

“Don’t move. Save your strength. It’s over now.”

Opposite as intended, Obi-Wan stirred. So much of this battle had taken place at the thin edge of “over” that the very idea spurred him to act. It had become an automatic switch of sorts, triggered by acquiescence to vehemently defy the prospect of defeat. He wrestled away from Anakin’s arms, weak but insistent, like a wet noodle that refused to submit. Anakin was perhaps just as eloquent on his unaccustomed legs. And so their duel commenced, as far as a duel could be justified between such wobbly contestants, in a strange, amorphous knot that knitted and unraveled itself, thoroughly shaming the renowned ideal of Jedi finesse. Finally, somehow, Obi-Wan’s feet ended up on the ground and Anakin stood apart from him on unsteady knees. Both were out of breath.

Not missing a beat, Obi-Wan ratcheted back into war-mode and made to resume the fight. “Cody,” he invoked by comm with a drooping arm laid over his side. “Report.” The last few hours were blurry - if in fact they were hours. He needed to know what he’d missed. Cody would know, because Cody always knew. And then, coordinates granted and situation up-to-date, they’d be back on track. Unsurprisingly, a stagnant silence wafted from the other side.

“Are you _stupid?!”_ Anakin filled in instead.

It wasn’t his heightened volume, but the unbridled _pleading_ that projected through his being as he berated his Master an arm-and-a-half’s reach away. For the first time then, Obi-Wan looked up. Not to a chessboard of strategic positions, terrain advantages and enemy garrisons, but for the first time, he truly saw the landscape before him:

Extinct.

Buildings were dark and crumbling, in places already gone. Clones and droids scurried about carting corpses and near-corpses of his own men, weapons tucked and away without need. The idyllic architecture of Bespin’s finest engineers was ground into dust. An empty space ushered crisp, midday sunlight through where the galactic comm station used to thrive at the peak of Sector 6. There was no way to deny it: this was mission end – mission _failure_ in its purest sense.

Gazing out at the destruction surrounding his irate apprentice, the flames of resistance died out from his eyes. Passively, he dropped his wrist. It suddenly felt immeasurably heavier.

“Well, it was a bit of a gamble to begin with,” he planned to say in the most uplifting voice he could muster, though peculiarly, no sound escaped. In the same event, even the ambient noises were mute. The boisterous winds, the shuffling of clones, the deep grind of underground machinery… All of it was lost in a powerful flush that emanated from a rampaging heat in his temples and stole its way down. The ground disappeared out from under him. He could not feel the rough hands on his arms, nor the hypospray in his neck. What seemed like an instant multiplied into hours, then slingshot again back in time. He'd felt this before, except now, a vague glimmer was there to guide him. Its warm, steadfast presence saw him through this bizarre and unexpected journey, reassuring him with foreign words that all would be well.

The gurney towed him away. Initially, Anakin kept pace. Over crumbling obstacles and shallow trenches he trailed alongside, dedicating the full extent of his abilities toward holding Obi-Wan’s frail signature close in the Force. It felt beyond tired. It was limp and forlorn and in terrible need of his care, but with four clones and a medical droid crowding around, Anakin stepped back at last to allow them more room. _I should’ve been there,_ he found himself thinking. It didn’t matter how many excuses were crammed in the back of his mind. Watching his Master shrink further away, he felt the guilt swell. At the end of the day, it was irrevocably true that a handful of clones had been dropped on a rock with one Jedi and numberless hostile droids. _Something_ could have been done differently. Something _should_ have been done differently, and if Anakin were a better strategist, maybe he would have.

 

\- - -

 

By the strength of the destroyers’ combined docking maneuver, the chasm was squashed together again in a jagged, colossal scar. Unintentionally, that meant every sentient underground was forcibly sealed inside. A subset of the evac team toiled for almost an hour at this newly shaped ridge, arduously persevering to avert sudden collapse while burrowing deep enough to contact the pair of Jedi captured within. Detached from the medical squad now, and endeavoring to bury his guilt, Anakin put his talents to use as a human dowsing machine. He meditated, stock-still in an eerie sort of way, until lifting his mind from the depths of the Force and announcing the location that resonated below in the shape of two Jedi. Where he indicated, the team started their course drilling into the ground. It was thus an exceptional feat of Force-driven excavation that finally enabled them all to unearth a chalky orange hand waving enthusiastically from several meters below. Meddlesome wires and beams were slashed as Ahsoka climbed with far less caution than the team would have preferred. She scaled sharp ledges and corners, Plo at her heels, grabbing troopers’ outstretched hands where they dangled into the shaft by their cords. Then, facing the rim opening out to fresh air, the last hand to assist her was augmented with recognizable cybernetics.

“Welcome back,” Anakin hailed with a smile, hauling her up from the pit.

She coughed in return. The sun was too bright without clouds to shield it, and only when Plo was upright by her side did she find the composure to answer intelligibly.

“H-hey. Is everything clear?”

Everything _seemed_ clear, if the plain depiction of emergency relief efforts surrounding them was anything to go off. But she’d been working apart from the counterattacks staged both on ground and in sky, so the possibility remained she was still needed somewhere.

Efficiently, Anakin quenched her tired, altruistic spirit. “We’re clear. The troops are out scouting for battledroids and anyone else in the 212th. I found Obi-Wan, but…” A frustrated sigh, and he folded his arms. “Grievous got away.”

Ahsoka deflated in turn. The destroyers were docked, barred from pursuit. All but a few pilots of smaller crafts had since merged with the evac and medical operations. It wouldn’t be right to deploy them on what would probably become a fruitless hunt, and besides, backup wasn’t an option. For all they knew, the Separatist fleet could be repopulating in the exosphere, waiting to retaliate against just such a group.

“General Grievous was never part of this arrangement,” reasoned Plo. He welcomed his Commander with a placid, raised hand as he approached. “What’s important is that the civilians receive food and shelter as soon as possible. Now that we’ve established a path into the quarantine, we may commence their evacuation. Commander?”

“We’re on it, sir,” Wolffe proudly informed, “I’ve got a unit on route from the flagship as we speak.”

“Good. Then seeing as I am not needed here, I will rejoin the operation shortly. Ready the transports and reserve medical personnel.”

“I should go too,” Ahsoka butted in. “Same setup as before, right? I’ll drop into the room and send the refugees into the tunnel.”

Stroking his mask once, Plo contemplated the kindest way to express his misgivings. “…Not… Exactly,” he attempted. “Shall we say, I expect the civilians will not be as pleased, meeting us for a second time.”

“Oh. That… Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” They’d made it quite clear only minutes ago that those people were to be left for dead.

“I see you understand. Visit the medical station as soon as Wolffe’s men have arrived. I suggest you do the same, Master Skywalker.” With a nod his direction, Plo returned to the pit.

Question marks populated Anakin’s face and articulated themselves through his eyebrows.

“What did you _do_ to those refugees?” he probed curiously, leaning left toward Ahsoka.

“I-” she began, and then, realizing the complexity into which she’d rather not delve, “Nothing. Forget it. They’re fine.”


	27. Chapter 27

Darkness.

Infinite darkness swaddled Obi-Wan’s body and mind as he drifted unaware inside bacta chamber 12-C of the Jedi Temple’s intensive medical ward. He’d been transferred the previous afternoon from the facilities on the 104th’s star destroyer, priority alpha, right alongside his Commander who floated similarly in chamber 12-B. The regular chatter of voices outside was muffled, lost somewhere in between the warm, viscous bacta and the calibrated stream of sedatives feeding in through small tubes.

“I’m afraid it’s going to take time,” one such voice lamented inside the dim, blue-lit room. Feminine, like the artificial blossoms and pearls that were tactfully woven into her hair.

An embittered huff contrasted against her graceful demeanor. “Why? I don’t see what there is to debate. Dooku invaded a neutral planet, and we fought him off. It’s _simple.”_

“Anakin, please. You’re not listening. With that relay offline, we only have testimony from Cloud City’s business association. From the moment the comm lines shut down, we’ve been in the dark.”

“And _I’m_ saying the comm lines aren’t _necessary!_ When the representative came here to ask for our help, he said there were _droids._ _Battle_ droids. And then we shipped out. Who cares that we lost? At least it shouldn’t be up for debate who _started_ this mess.”

Padmé drew in her breath. She never enjoyed discussing politics with Anakin, but it appeared this was going to require a longer explanation than she was hoping to give. “I agree,” she entered carefully. The best line to use when preparing for contentious speech. “And so do many others. Most of us believe there is sufficient evidence to hold the Confederacy accountable for what happened on Bespin. And it helps that Master Plo reported the 212th was involved.” Detecting a trace of puzzlement in her husband’s expression, she backtracked. “That is, even the most sheltered of senators recognize the name Kenobi. He came into the war with a good record. It gives them confidence that the Jedi considered the situation seriously.”

“Wait—they didn’t think we were _serious?!”_ Anakin was inflamed.

“That’s not what I said. It’s just-” She sighed. That was supposed to be the _good_ news. “At worst, there are people who want to believe that the blackout was caused by the Republic. They’ve said we’re allied in secret with Cloud City, who shut down communications on purpose in order to pin the event on the Separatists.”

The boiling volcano before her was red with disgust. “That is _such utter bantha shit!_ People _died_ on that mission!” Fists clenched at his sides, he loosed one of them in a powerful swing to point at the serene rows of tanks. “Padmé, my own _Master_ almost died on that mission! I was there! I kriffing _fought_ for that rock!”

Soothing hands swooped in to quell him before he combusted and the whole Temple found out. “Ani, calm down.” She cupped his cheek and stepped a pace forward. “I know you did. I’m upset, too. But you have to understand that this war isn’t transparent. I’m lucky. I know you. I know Obi-Wan, and I know plenty of other Jedi and how you’ve all struggled to restore peace. But others don’t see you that way. To most people, the Jedi are mysterious. Not everyone trusts you yet. Please, you have to be patient.”

Anakin drew restless fingers over her slender wrist. His anger persisted throughout her smooth words, though to her credit she succeeded in reducing it to a simmer that he could conceal under a tightly maintained lid.

Silence fell upon them. Alone in the still wing – save for the unconscious patients – Anakin’s more volatile emotions were magnified. There was no longer the fast tide of battle to organize his thoughts, and in the absence of that imposed structure, he treaded and thrashed in a whirlpool inside his head. Padmé was his sole saving grace.

“The people of Naboo are open to the idea of having a replacement relay built on our planet.”

Except when she said things like that.

“What?!” He moved to grab both of her hands, holding her near as though she might slip away. “Padmé. No. We _just_ saw that Count Dooku attacked Bespin. If he’s willing to go that far, there’s no reason he wouldn’t go after Naboo. It’s not safe. I won’t allow it.”

It never struck a pleasant chord in Padmé whenever he claimed dominion over her actions, but nevertheless, her career was built on a foundation of tolerance. “It’s just an idea,” she retorted, stealing her hands back as punishment. “Even if the Senate approves, it might just be temporary. Cloud City made huge profits from having that station, so while it does carry some risk, it’s quite possible that other planets will auction for the permanent installation.”

_“Padmé…”_

“Well, wherever it’s built, I hope the Jedi will send representatives to supervise construction.”

Anakin perked up.

“It would be safer that way,” she continued, “and it would solidify the people’s faith that the fighting on Bespin wasn’t for show.”

 _Safer for you,_ Anakin thought privately. And an official mission on Padmé’s home planet? With nothing to do but supervise? Suddenly, this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

But before he could express his revised opinion, the automatic doors swiped away, and in walked Ahsoka wearing a venomous look.

“Hey, Master,” she said, sounding drained. Stopping at a respectable distance, she bowed by habit to Padmé. “Senator Amidala.”

She’d caught them at a decent time, all things considered, though Anakin would have preferred that she hadn’t caught them at all. “What’s wrong?” He had to ask.

“There’s another rep from Bespin who’s looking for-” her voice changed, and a sardonic pair of air quotes reached into her fingers. “- _the person in charge of the battle.”_

 _“Again?!”_ As if connected by wires, Ahsoka’s mood shot straight into Anakin. “Why can’t these people wrap their heads around the fact that battles aren’t just one person?! I mean there’s hierarchy, sure, but even _droids_ split their command into units! They met with _Plo,_ they met with _me,_ what are they trying to _accomplish?!”_

Unlike Padmé, Ahsoka had no intention to limit his outrage. She actually seemed enlivened by it, nodding amid his impassioned complaints, standing straighter the more he reproached. He put all her annoyance into his own words, and somehow, it was supremely comforting for Ahsoka to hear her gripes validated by a person she viewed as surpassing her. Of course, her fascination and approval only spurred Anakin to continue. Sensing this onslaught would perpetuate if she failed to intervene, Padmé accepted the diplomatic role she was given to.

“I think… _I_ should meet with the representative. Ahsoka, can you tell me where they went?”

Cycle broken, Ahsoka paused from her inspired cynicism. “Huh? Oh. I told her to wait in the great hall. I think she told me her name, but I stopped listening by then.” Anakin prompted a high-five with overflowing pride in his heart.

“Okay.” Padmé readied her game face then, mentally preparing herself to placate an important guest who’d undoubtedly feel unwelcomed, ignored and abandoned. “I’ll find you two later.”

Anakin certainly didn’t expect to be so relieved when his wife left the room. The sight of her vanishing back was more often a somber occasion, but here, he felt a dense weight disappear from his chest in a cathartic burst.

“It’s probably for the best,” Ahsoka premised, “But I was planning on bringing the rep to this room.”

“Oh really? What for?”

She flashed a devilish grin, and in a grand gesture opened her arms wide toward Obi-Wan’s sparsely-healed, mostly-nude form drifting inside the tank.

“She wants the person in charge? I present to you _Master Kenobi!_ Mister _in-charge_ himself.”

Yes, Anakin was very glad that his Padawan came. He held his lungs to contain his insatiable laughter, but ultimately infected Ahsoka as well and together they ruined the pristine medical ambience.

“Sh- _Shh!”_ he shushed hypocritically. They’d soon be kicked out, if only for disrespect.

“It’s- your fault!” she stuttered back.

Collecting himself a degree, Anakin leaned against Obi-Wan’s tank.

“Do you even know how _livid_ this guy would be?” He hiked a thumb back. “Oh, man. You really should’ve done it.”

“I had to make sure he was _there!_ I think I’d feel _pretty_ lame if I set this all up and he wasn’t there for the punchline.”

“Good point,” Anakin conceded.

“Which reminds me…” A darker shade colored her voice. “There was a Council meeting, in case you forgot.”

As quickly as Ahsoka had inflated his mood, she popped it with deadly precision. As ever, Anakin _knew_ there was a meeting to join. He received the notification upon exiting the destroyer at the same time as Plo, the same time as Ahsoka and Commander Wolffe. Summons were additionally meant for Obi-Wan and _his_ Commander, but while they had excuse, Anakin did not. Instead, he had a wife who was on-planet and willing to comfort him once visiting hours were opened in the bacta containment ward. One of these options was far more appealing than the alternative.

“It’s fine,” granted Ahsoka, counter to expectation. “I’d be here too if it was you in the tank.”

She really must have been gunning for Padawan-of-the-year, at least in Anakin’s book.

“But I think you should know, we picked up some signals during the window when long-range comm was online.” Spotting a free stretch of glass, she mirrored his pose against Obi-Wan’s tank.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Well, that’s just it: I can’t. They’re scrambled, IDs are erased, and so far all we know is the destination. They were heading towards Utapau.”

Anakin considered. “Okay? So some smugglers were conducting business. Happens all the time.”

“During a communications blackout?” she challenged, “I don’t think so. Those signals showed up the _second_ we went online. It’d take a smuggler longer than that to just open a terminal.”

“…I see. So descrambling is in the works?”

“Yup. We’ll send investigation to Utapau when we have it all sorted out.” Her gaze was downcast then, like a budding General in her own right. “We’re also hoping that Master Obi-Wan will be awake by then so he can advise. …We still don’t have his report. And I guess the Senate is making up all _kinds_ of stories about what really happened down there. It’s just so… _infuriating.”_

 _You can say_ that _again._ Meetings, reports, and missions lined up already. It hadn’t been a full Standard day since the destroyers arrived. But inside the warm tank supporting their backs, time was irrelevant. Duties and expectations bounced right off the glass. So long as Obi-Wan remained in its womb, he would sleep undisturbed. And glancing back to his many wounds, thinking of all he would deal with upon his awakening, Anakin hoped that his Master slept for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in three hours. Other chapters took more than one day. I don't understand.
> 
> Anyway, I extend my immeasurable gratitude to you for bearing with me this long. You deserve a round of applause. As always, I have plans for more stories, but no immediate plans to begin another writing schedule. If you're so inclined, let me know what you thought of this work. Or don't. No pressure.


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